


Dead Girl Walking

by DustInTheWind



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Bullying, Child Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustInTheWind/pseuds/DustInTheWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still no Girl on Fire. Still no Boy With the Bread. But Brutal, Bloody Cato is back. And this time he's burning even more slowly. For a Dead Girl Walking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Creating a Monster

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read my story Dark Horse: I'm gonna shamelessly encourage you to do so. But if you don't want to, that's cool too. This story is another version of that one, and can be read completely independently from it. Dark Horse is sweeter and a little bit lighter. This one is a little darker, although I personally find it to be more rewarding at the end. It is, of course, canon-divergent, and there are two important things to note. The first is that tributes train with their mentors for 3 months rather than a few days. The second is that each tribute has their own apartment and training facility.
> 
> If you have read Dark Horse: This story will look almost identical to it for the first few chapters, but will veer off in a different direction by chapter 4 and will continue to diverge until the end. Cato's quite a dick in this one, and Hera's gonna go batshit crazy for a while. I apologize for the redundancy, but there are a few key differences in Chapters 1-3, and if you can power through them I promise I will make it up to you starting in 4. 
> 
> It's a given that I do not own the Hunger Games or any of the characters. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please review! It helps me become a better writer!

He was eight years old and he had come in last in the 200 yard sprint that afternoon. A handful of the other boys from his class surrounded him with sneers on their faces as he made his way to the table in the far corner of the cafeteria--the one where he always sat by himself--with his dinner tray.

He just stood there, paralyzed with fear, praying that whatever they did to him tonight, they’d do it quickly.

"Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!” they chanted as Damian Sanders slapped the tray from his hands and it crashed to the ground. They herded him out of the cafeteria and into the bathroom and before he knew it his head was in the toilet. In his struggle for oxygen, he swallowed a mouthful of the disgusting water.

“Awww does somebody miss his mommy?” Damian jeered when he came up choking and sobbing.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough boys!” Marcus, one of the long-range weapons instructors, called from the doorway. “That’s enough for today.”

\----------

He was fourteen years old and he had come in first in the 200 yard sprint that afternoon. He and his buddies surrounded Damian Sanders with sneers on their faces as he emerged from the shower.

Damian just stood there, paralyzed with fear, as though he were praying that whatever they did to him tonight, they’d do it quickly.

“Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!” they chanted as Cato Hadley ripped the towel from around his hips and whipped him in the nuts with it. Before he knew it, Damian’s head was in the toilet that Cato had pissed in five minutes earlier. In his struggle for oxygen, he swallowed a mouthful of urine.

“What’s the matter? Not a fan of golden showers?” Cato jeered when Damian came up choking and sobbing,

“Alright, alright, that’s enough boys!” Marcus called from the doorway. “That’s enough for today.”

 

 


	2. The Lion and the Lamb

Cato Hadley was the most beloved victor in District 2. At the age of 18, he’d volunteered for the 71st Hunger Games, and had won in what his district considered the most honorable way; it had come down to him and the male tribute from 1, and they’d thrown their weapons to the side and battled it out with their bare hands for a solid thirteen minutes before Cato knocked the other boy out and broke his neck.

The games, which had taken place that year in marshy swamplands, had been the second shortest in Panem history, and Cato took down eight of his fellow tributes in four days, setting the record for most kills. Apart from the broken hand and internal bruising he’d sustained in the final showdown, he suffered only one other injury: a deep cut across his forehead when a gator mutt swiped him with one of its massive claws just before he shoved a spear through its skull after it killed Dani, his district partner.

He had been amped up beyond belief to enter his games, although he maintained a facade of reserved disdain, as though he were above this whole thing. He knew he’d win, the way he knew that the sun rose in the east and set in the west, and so did his mentors and his classmates at the Academy. At his pre-games interview with Caesar, he won over the Capitol audience with his cold, self-assured demeanor. “I’m prepared. I’m vicious. I’m ready to go,” he said with absolute certainty, and the crowd roared.

Cato had one vivid memory from his games. As he stood on his plate, assessing the cornucopia and the positions of his Career allies, he reminded himself why he was here. He had trained for this since he was six years old. Once he was crowned Victor, all of his hard work, his blood and his sweat, would pay off and he’d be able to start living like a king. He’d have a mansion in Victors’ Village, complete with Avoxes to serve him. He’d eat only the best food, drink only the finest liquor, and every night he’d sink himself balls deep into only the hottest pussy.

He calmed his breath and steadied his heartbeat to return his focus to the task at hand.There was a sword on the ground about 10 yards from him. This, he decided, would be the instrument with which he would achieve his goal.

Twenty-three other children were all that stood between Cato and what was to be the greatest moment of his entire life.

When it was time, he launched himself off of the plate and sprinted to the sword, shoving some girl about his age out of the way. He snatched it up and turned to the nearest tribute, a 12-year-old boy from District 3, who was crouched on the ground to retrieve a backpack of supplies. The little boy leapt up when Cato’s shadow fell over him, and Cato sliced off his head as he had done to countless holographs during his years of training. But the holographs from the Academy didn’t have big green eyes that bored into his with terror just before the blade struck home like this boy did. Blood didn’t pour forth from their throats, coating his hands with warmth.

Cato had no memory of what happened during his games after that, although he watched himself kill four more tributes during the bloodbath at his post-games interview with Caesar six days later.

He watched himself bark orders to the other Careers, watched himself smile contemptuously as his allies mocked the pleas for mercy their victims had sobbed out before they were slaughtered.

He watched himself fuck Luxe, the female tribute from 1, against a willow tree during his second night in the arena while the other Careers slept, and then he watched himself hunt down and dispatch two other tributes with all the compunction of a horse swatting at a fly with its tail.

He watched himself walk away from Luxe’s body without so much as a backward glance after Dani put an arrow through her heart when it was time for the Career alliance to break apart.

He watched as he and his final opponent pummeled each other with blows to the stomach and kidneys before he got the upperhand and snapped the other boy’s neck.

He didn’t remember doing any of it.

He did remember his post-games interview, but it was as if he stood behind his actual body for the duration of it, watching himself watch himself while he lounged in a tailored dark grey suit on the loveseat across from Caesar, one arm slung casually across the back of it, his ankle resting on his knee. The crowd adored him.

He got his mansion in Victors’ Village, but he walked through the rooms blindly. He got his fine food and his top-shelf liquor, but he couldn’t taste any of it. And as for the pussy…

Most nights he went out drinking with his buddies from his own training days. He usually didn’t get wasted, just pleasantly buzzed. When he’d had enough, he’d look around whatever establishment they were patronizing to find all of the women staring at him with blatant lust. He’d survey them all briefly before choosing the hottest one, and he’d wink once and smirk at her before sauntering over to introduce himself. Some of them tried to be witty and clever as they flirted with him, and if he was in the mood Cato indulged them and bantered back, but he really wasn’t into the bullshit of playing cat and mouse games; they’d had him at first eye-fuck.

He was rough and detached in bed (and against the wall, and on the floor), dispensing with kissing after about 30 seconds, but he wasn’t entirely selfish. He knew how to get a girl off, and he made sure he did it before blowing his own load, because after all it was only fair.

He never brought them to his place, and he never stayed at theirs, leaving immediately after he had finished. Most of the time, he didn’t even bother to learn their names.

He spent his time helping train the candidates at the Academy, and then he acted as a sort of apprentice and backup to Enobaria as she mentored the male tribute for the 72nd games. District 2 lost that year, and the Victor was a tall, beautiful dark-skinned girl named Laila from 1. Cato, however, had done such a good job acquiring sponsors for his charge that they decided he was ready to take on full mentorship responsibility for Alec, the male volunteer for the 73rd Games. Alec was tall and blond like his young mentor, but while Cato gave off an aura of quiet, jaded contempt for everything and everyone, Alec was lewd and gregarious, with a maniacal gleam in his eyes. He won his games almost as easily as Cato had won his, and he laughed like a madman as he carried out his kills. Brutus and Lyme and the others clapped Cato on the back and called him a prodigy--he was the only mentor to ever produce a Victor on his first try. For the 74th games, he mentored Thea, the female volunteer. She made it to the final six before she was killed, and the male tribute from 1, Lars, took the crown. Lyme told Cato he’d done a great job anyway, reassured him that you won some and you lost some, and encouraged him to take it all in stride.

She didn’t realize that he didn’t care. He had acted smug when Alec won, and slightly disappointed when Thea lost, because that was how everyone had expected him to behave, but he didn’t give two shits. Mentoring and teaching at the Academy was nothing more than his duty as a Victor, nothing more than something to fill his time.

He looked to all of Panem like a young man utterly satisfied with himself and his place in the world, but inside, he’d felt nothing for four years.

Well, almost nothing. Sometimes he relived his only memory from his bloodbath in his nightmares, and he awoke sick to his stomach with a feeling he couldn’t name. On those nights, he couldn’t fall back asleep, and so he would sit on the edge of his bed, a rope in his hand, tying a noose and then untying it, and then tying and untying it again, over and over in the dark.

He didn’t understand what it was that kept him from hanging himself, didn’t realize that beneath the surface of his conscious thought was the latent knowledge that twenty-three dead children would never forgive him for wasting what had been taken from them four years ago.

\----------

“Hera! Where are you, you little bitch!”

Hera panicked as she heard her father stumble into the house. _Why is he home so early?_ She slipped through the kitchen window, and sprinted into the woods. Years of fleeing from him had made her quick, agile and light-footed, and she scrambled up into a nearby tree with stealthy ease. She heard the crunch of his boots on the ground, and ducked into the cover of the foliage, careful not to make a sound or rustle the branches.

“…ungrateful little whore…” she could hear him muttering. She peered down at him through the leaves to gauge how drunk he was. On a scale of 1 to 10, he appeared to be at about a 7. He staggered around for a few more minutes before giving up and returning to the house. Hera settled into a more comfortable position. Three more drinks or so and he’d pass out for the night.

She couldn’t remember a time when her father hadn’t been drunk and abusive, but things had gone from bad to worse when Hera’s mother died of fever ten years ago, leaving her eight-year-old daughter the sole target of his anger. She had tried hiding in closets and under beds, but he’d inevitably find her, and beat her even more harshly to punish her for the inconvenience of having to hunt for her. Mostly he used his fists and his feet, but sometimes he’d yank his belt off and whip her across the back and shoulder blades as hard as he could until his rage was spent.

Then one day when she was nine, she and her best friend Uma climbed a tree to pick the first ripe pears of the season, and as they sat in the branches enjoying the early fall breeze, it occurred to her what an excellent hiding place this would be.

If her father was only kind of drunk as opposed to completely wasted he was still decently quick, and she’d have to zigzag through the trees for a hundred yards or so to lose him before selecting one to scale, but her stealth combined with his intoxication would force him to give up his chase within a couple of minutes. A few times a month he still managed to catch her before she could get out of the house, and then she’d have bruised ribs and a split lip, but if she made it to the woods she was golden. She’d hide out for a few hours, making a meal out of apples and the earthy groundnuts she foraged for beneath the fallen leaves, and then return to the house to find him passed out on the couch, a bottle of liquor next to him. By the time he woke up the next morning, he either didn’t remember the events of the previous evening or was too hungover to acknowledge her presence before he headed off to work at the paper processing plant.

When she was fifteen and puberty hit, the look in her father’s eye took on a lecherous cast, inciting a new kind of panic in Hera. He’d press against her and grope around clumsily, but thankfully, his drunkenness meant he could never quite get hard enough to accomplish his goal of deflowering his daughter. Although it would infuriate him and result in especially cruel beatings, Hera preferred the extra blows to the idea of being raped.

No one, not even Uma, knew that she had resorted to hiding from her father in the trees. Telling people would have meant acknowledging the abuse, and Hera was too proud to do that. Oh, everyone knew about her situation, but it was one of those things you didn’t talk about, like sex or the cruelties of the Capitol. And Hera held her head high and refused to let on that her body was perpetually sore, so the townspeople pretended they didn’t see the bruises on her cheeks.

She didn’t mind spending so many hours in the forest. She liked the smell of the damp soil and the sound of cicadas singing in the summer. She liked the way the frost coated the leaves like sugar when the cold started to set in. She liked the inky look of the bare branches against the purple gloom of twilight in the winter. The forest had become her home.

She didn’t stay in the trees for long tonight, though. It looked like rain, and Hera wasn’t in the mood to get drenched, so she jumped down from her perch and headed over to Uma’s house.

\----------

“What are you gonna wear tomorrow?” Uma asked, removing the darts from the bullseye and handing them to her.

“Hadn’t thought about it.” Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye. The two girls had found the strange looking circle in Uma’s dad’s shed when they were little, and asked him what it was. He explained that it was a dartboard, back from before the war, when Panem was known as the United States. And then he fished out a set of three darts and showed them how to use it. Over the years the girls had gotten so good they didn’t even compete with one another or keep score anymore. There was no point, since they hit the bullseye nine times out of ten. But they still sat around and tossed the darts for old times’ sake, and Hera loved the familiar comfort of the repetitive action.

“Well I think you should wear your purple dress. You look so cute in it.”

Hera rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about looking cute for reaping day.”

“Well not for the actual reaping, but for afterwards!”

Hera just looked at her best friend in confusion.

Uma sighed with exasperation. “You’re an idiot. Dean’s gonna ask you to marry him tomorrow, once you make it through your last reaping. Lucky girl. He’s so hot!”

Hera felt her mouth drop open and her face grow warm. “No, it’s not like that!....He doesn’t think of me like that. I don’t think of him like that….I mean we’ve never even kissed….he’s too old for me.”

Uma raised her eyebrows and turned back to the dartboard. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

\----------

The next morning, Hera was over to Dean Callahan’s house at the crack of dawn, heating bathwater for Cole, Dean’s 10-year-old son. It was going to be a long morning. She needed to get four children bathed, dressed, and fed, and then she had to get herself ready for the reaping. And she needed to keep poor Tara, who was 12 and eligible for the first time, calm.

Dean’s wife had died eight months ago while giving birth to their last child, a baby girl named Mia. Dean was left with four children to raise on his own, but he didn’t know how to cook a decent meal, and even if he’d been able to, he was exhausted by the time he got home each evening from working with his logging crew all day. He’d never really spoken to Hera, but he lived two doors down from her, and about a week after his wife’s funeral, he stopped her as she passed his house on the way home from school, and asked her if she’d be willing to drop out and look after the baby and keep house for him.

Hera didn’t really see the point in continuing with school. She was in her last year, and she’d always figured she’d just go to work in one of the factories once she was done. She could read and write and do basic math...what else did she need to learn? She’d miss Uma, but they could hang out during the evenings. Dean’s three older children--Tara, Cole, and 7-year-old son Reese--seemed well-behaved and Dean himself was reserved and polite. He’d offered her a small wage, but a decent one, and three meals a day. So she said yes.

Every weekday for the last eight months, Hera had shown up first thing in the morning to make breakfast and get the three older children ready for school. She’d spend the day cooking and cleaning while she watched Mia, and then she’d stay for the better part of the evening, serving and eating supper with them, washing up the dishes, and helping the kids with their homework. Some nights she even put them to bed. She didn’t spend as much time in the trees now, and sometimes she missed it, but she still retreated to the forest on the weekends.

Her father had no idea that she had dropped out of school. He left before Hera every morning, and after work he went to the bar and drank until at least nine o’clock. Her neighbors, sympathetic and loyal, kept her secret, knowing that her father would only squander her wages on liquor if he knew.

She had a hard time looking Dean in the face this morning after her conversation with Uma the night before. She knew that people had started to talk about the two of them, but she’d always rolled her eyes and dismissed the comments. At 31, Dean was thirteen years older than Hera, and although he’d always treated her with respect, he’d never made a pass at her--he probably wasn’t interested in her in that way, and even if he was, he was too polite to risk making her uncomfortable.

But Uma wasn’t exaggerating when she said he was hot. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with lean muscles from logging all day. His skin was tan and rough from working outside, and Hera liked the way the corners of his gray eyes crinkled when he smiled. He wore his dark brown hair in a small knot at the back of his head, and his teeth gleamed milky white against the scruff of his beard.

Cole had finished his bath by the time Hera dished up oatmeal with honey and cherries for breakfast. “Alright, little man,” she said to Reese, ruffling his hair affectionately. “You’re up as soon as you’re done eating.” Then she turned her attention to spoon-feeding Mia, playing a game of peekaboo in between bites. This made the baby girl squeal with delight, and Hera loved the sound. It was infectious and she found herself unable to stifle a giggle of her own. Mia pressed the fingers of one hand, sticky with honey, to Hera’s lips, and she caught them in her mouth briefly, and then released them with a pop of her lips, making Mia squeal again. _This is a good day_ , she thought to herself as she licked the traces of honey left behind by Mia from her lips. _Honey, and cherries and the sound of a baby’s laughter_. She looked up to find Dean gazing at her with warmth in his eyes.

 _Maybe Uma’s right_ , she thought to herself. _No, I’m just imagining it. He’s not looking at me any differently than he normally does._

As she put away the breakfast dishes, she stood on tiptoe, straining to replace the honey pot on a high shelf, where little fingers greedy for sugar wouldn’t be able to reach it, when she felt Dean come up behind her. “Here,” he said quietly, taking it from her. “Let me do that for you.” He smelled like cedar and leather.

After she had gotten the three younger ones ready, she helped Tara get dressed. The little girl was shaking with fright, so Hera sat her down on her lap and smoothed her hair. “Don’t worry, honey, your name is only in once. They won’t pick you.”

“But what if they do?” she whispered.

“They won’t,” Hera told her firmly. “Now, let’s get your hair braided.” She combed through Tara’s hair gently, humming softly to soothe her. She looked up to see Dean’s eyes on her again, and this time there was no mistaking the heat that emanated from them. Hera felt herself blush, and she dropped her gaze.

As she finished braiding Tara’s hair, she thought about what Uma had said last night. Suppose Dean did ask her to marry him. What would she say? Looking after his children had awakened a fierce maternal instinct that she’d had no idea she possessed. She adored all of them, and they treated her as though she were their mother, proudly displaying their homework to her when they did well at school and seeking her out for comfort when they scraped themselves while playing. She loved the way Mia’s face lit up at the sight of her, loved the feel of the baby in her arms. She didn’t know Dean well and she certainly didn’t love him, but he was handsome and respectful and appreciative of her help. He worked hard and he loved his family. She heard boyish laughter and looked up from Tara’s hair to see Dean and Cole play-wrestling. “You’ll wrinkle your shirt,” she admonished Cole, trying to make her voice sound stern, but she couldn’t help but smile.

_Yes. I’ll say yes if he asks._


	3. Reaped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hera's tribute parade dress is inspired by this. Except the branches are brown/green/gold. And this dress is backless. Hera's is not: http://www.inspirationbycolor.com/zuhair-murad-blue-sequined-tree-branch-dress/

Her father had left for the bar by the time she returned to her house to get ready. She scrubbed herself thoroughly and combed her clean, wet hair out by the fire until it was silky. She put on the dark purple dress that Uma had told her to wear. Outside, the sky was a gloomy gray and the wind was chilly, so she pulled on her brown leather boots and wrapped an oversized, cream wool cardigan around herself, and then she headed back over to collect Tara and take her to the square. She wasn’t nervous for herself or the little girl. Neither of them had had to take tesserae; their chances of being chosen were slim.

When they arrived at the square, Hera stood beside Uma in the section reserved for the eighteen-year-old girls. She didn’t know where her father was--or if he was even there, but it didn’t bother her. What did bother her was that she couldn’t see Tara from all the way back there. But to her right, she could see Dean on the edge of the crowd holding Mia, with his two boys flanking him. She wondered if she’d be standing beside him next year, with Mia on her hip and a hand on Reese’s head.

Then the District 7 escort, Trini Sweetwater, traipsed to the front of the stage in a hideous pea-green dress and a white wig. They all watched the stupid Capitol video, and then it was time to read the names, and it was all going to be over soon, and Hera was getting butterflies in her stomach because _what if Dean asks me to marry him_? she thought.

And then “Tara Callahan,” said Trini in her saccharine voice.

Hera felt time suspend itself as she processed what she’d just heard, felt her blood stop moving in her veins, even as she heard her pulse beat against her eardrums. _No. No no no_. She had _promised_ Tara that her name wouldn’t be called. She glanced to her right. Dean stood in shock, Cole and Reese were starting to cry. And then she saw the back of Tara’s head as the Peacekeepers took hold of her arms to escort her onstage and suddenly time started to move too quickly.

Hera didn’t think, she just moved, shoving her way past the other girls to the center aisle.

“No!” she shouted. “I’ll go. Take me.” She felt everyone turn to look at her, and then two Peacekeepers materialized on either side of her, each taking an arm to whisk her to the front of the crowd. And she was onstage, saying “Hera Greenleaf” into the microphone. She had no idea who they called from the boys’ section. Her brain registered that he was younger than her, short and skinny, with dark hair, but she couldn’t focus enough to remember his name or the features of his face.

She didn’t even hear Trini announce that, in honor of the Third Quarter Quell,  the tributes for the 75th Annual Hunger Games would be mentored by victors from another district.

Within seconds the Peacekeepers were escorting her inside and she found herself deposited in the fanciest room she’d ever been in, but she didn’t stop to take it in as she thought about what she’d just done. She had committed herself to die. But what choice did she have? She could have said nothing, and watched a little girl she’d come to think of almost as a daughter be slaughtered on live television. She couldn’t have faced herself, couldn’t have accepted a proposal from Dean--if in fact, he’d meant to propose--if she’d done that. She would have drowned in her own guilt. And who would miss her when she was gone? Certainly not her father. Yes, the Callahan children would miss her, but they would have missed Tara more. Uma...Uma would be fine, she had a loving family, she had other friends. This was for the best.

Uma appeared first, bawling her eyes out. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” Hera said over and over again, rubbing her back as they hugged. She pulled back to give her best friend a tiny smile. “You’ll be done with school in a couple of weeks and then you can go work for Dean,” she said, trying her best to comfort Uma. It only made her friend cry harder as the Peacekeepers came to escort her out of the room.

The Callahan family came next, tears on the three older children’s cheeks and snot running down their noses. She threw her arms around the three of them, gathering them to herself. “You silly things,” she said with a brave face. “Don’t you know I’ve survived my father all these years? I’ll survive the Games.” It was the sweetest lie she’d ever told and she didn’t feel one bit guilty for it. It was also the first time she’d acknowledged her father’s abuse out loud. But the children weren’t blind; they’d seen her bruises. They stifled their tears, determined to match her stoicism.

Dean shooed them from the room and turned to face her, holding Mia in his arms. Hera had lost her shyness now that she had sentenced herself to death, and she looked him boldly in the face, holding out her hands to take Mia on her hip one last time. “I’ll miss you baby girl,” she cooed, and kissed the top of her head. When she looked back at Dean he had tears in his eyes. “Uma Graham is done with school in a couple of weeks,” she told him. “She can take my place.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “You’ve sacrificed yourself for my daughter.”

Hera shrugged. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d just stood there.”

Dean just stared at her. Then he leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands before placing a kiss, at once sweet and rough, on her lips. And then the Peacekeepers opened the door and announced that his time was up. She pulled back and handed Mia to him, and she smiled wistfully with her mouth, but she could tell that it didn’t reach her eyes. He stared at her as they pulled him backwards from the room, stared at her until they shut the door.

\----------

Alec was bouncing off the walls with excitement. He was going to be a mentor this year for the first time, and any minute now the cameras would go live, and it would be time for his tribute, Clay, to volunteer.

All of the District 2 victors were gathered in a room in the Justice Center, waiting for Clay and Clove, the female tribute, to join them after the reaping. Brutus would be responsible for mentoring Clove, a tiny dark-haired girl with narrow eyes and a sour expression.

The Third Quarter Quell announcement had not yet been made, and except for Alec, who was too hyped up, and Cato, who didn’t really give a shit about anything, they were all a little on edge as they wondered what the twist would be for the games.

They let out a collective breath when the door opened, and Paris, the escort for 2, entered the room, flanked by two Peacekeepers.

“Oh good. Are you here to tell us the Quarter Quell twist?” Lyme asked.

“Yes,” Paris said, and the Peacekeeper on his left handed him a thick glossy envelope sealed with Seneca Crane’s monogram.

They all leaned forward in concerned anticipation as Paris opened the envelope and began to read Crane’s message.

“On behalf of our august leader, President Snow, I am excited to announce that for the Third Quarter Quell each tribute will be mentored by a Victor from another district. The stylists, prep teams, and mentors of District 2 will have the honor of working with the tributes from District 7 for the 75th Annual Games, while the District 2 tributes will train under District 9. I’m sure you will find the change to be a refreshing one. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor, Seneca Crane.”

They all sat in stunned silence for a few seconds, before Enobaria spoke up. “This is a joke right?”

Paris shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“What the--?! This is bullshit!” Alec exclaimed. “Brutus, you have to call that bastard Crane and tell him we refuse to mentor any other tributes!”

“First of all,” Brutus said, “one does not simply tell the head gamemaker--or any gamemaker for that matter--what to do. And secondly, I’m not wasting my time on those little runts from 7. Cato gets to do the honors along with you this year.”

“Why do _I_ have to?” Cato asked, mildly annoyed.

“Because seniority rules,” Brutus said with finality, and he turned on his heel and left the room.

\----------

The two of them watched the District 7 reaping in sullen resignation.

The boy, Julian, was fourteen and scrawny, and he blubbered as the Peacekeepers shoved him up the steps and into the escort’s clutches. He wouldn’t make it through the bloodbath.

The girl wouldn’t, either. Anyone who volunteered simply for the sake of saving another person’s life was too soft. And she was a tiny little thing, who wrapped her ill-fitting sweater around herself tightly and shivered as the wind whipped her fine hair into her face. She stood onstage, devoid of expression, and when she spoke her name—Hera something-or-other—into the microphone, her voice sounded hollow.

“Do you want the boy or the girl?” Alec asked him.

“Either one. Doesn’t matter to me,” Cato said.

“Well I want the boy. Girls from the outlying districts are worthless.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re both gonna be slaughtered in the first hour, but fine, whatever.” Cato had no intention of actually training this girl. She didn’t have a chance, so why bother?

\----------

Hera had never seen such luxury. The walls and furnishings of the train compartment were upholstered in dark green velvet. There were thick carpets on the floors and the surfaces of the tables and counters were inlaid with patterns of different lacquered woods--cherry and maple and mahogany. Crystal chandeliers lit the compartment, and a mouthwatering variety of fruits, cheeses and pastries was spread across one of the counters.

Trini sat them down in the plush chairs and gave them each a cup of tea, then busied herself with fixing plates for them. Some of Hera’s shock had worn off, and she turned to her male counterpart to ask him his name and age. “Julian,” he whispered to her, looking bewildered. “I’m fourteen.”

“Hera, eighteen,” she whispered back and squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“Where’s Johanna?” she asked Trini, as the escort handed them each a plate.

“She’ll be traveling to the Capitol on another train.”

“Why?”

“Well, there’s no sense in her traveling with us since she’ll be working with the District 10 tributes.”

“Huh? Why is she doing that?”

“Didn’t you hear the Quarter Quell announcement at the reaping?” Hera looked at her blankly. “The tributes this year are working with mentors from other districts. You two will be working with District 2.”

“Which one from District 2?” Hera asked. There was the woman with the sharp teeth, Enobaria, and the bald one, Brutus. The ruthless quiet one that all the girls fawned over, Cato. Alec, the winner from two years ago with a sick psychotic laugh. She tried to run through all of them in her head, but she lost track; there had to be at least a dozen of them still living, probably more like fifteen, although most of the older ones had retired from mentoring. She shivered involuntarily. They were all intimidating.

“I’m not sure, dear. We’ll find out once we arrive. But I’m sure you’ll each get your own,” Trini said. Of course they would. Districts that had more than one sane, living victor had that luxury, unlike 7.

 ---------

“Do you think we’ll train together?” Julian asked her a bit later.

“I don’t know. Our mentors will probably decide that for us. That and whether or not we’ll work together during the games. But listen, no matter what, I won’t kill you.” The words sounded so strange coming out of her mouth.

“I won’t kill you either,” he said to her, managing to give her a weak smile.

Neither of them asked what they would do if they made it to the final two, because they both knew it would never happen.

\----------

“Hmmm, surely they’re here by now,” Trini frowned as she looked out at the platform. She was waiting for the District 2 mentors to board the train and greet Hera and Julian before they disembarked and headed into the Training Center to prepare for the Tribute Parade.

Julian peeked through the curtains at the crowd that had gathered in front of the platform to cheer the arrival of each new pair of tributes.

“Ma’am, we can’t wait any longer,” said a Peacekeeper, sticking his head into the compartment. “The next train will be arriving in less than 10 minutes.”

Trini sighed frustratedly and ushered her tributes to the door. “Alright my dears, smile and wave for the crowds.” And then she placed a hand on each of their backs and pushed them gently out the door and onto the platform. Julian waved weakly, but was too overwhelmed to smile. Hera didn’t feel like waving and the attention made her nervous, so she fixed her eyes just above the crowd and waited for it to be over with.

\----------

“Oh thank god. Something I can work with,” were the first words out of her stylist’s mouth. His name was Gianni and he typically worked with the female tribute from District 2. “I wasn’t sure what was under that monstrosity of a cardigan you had on at your reaping.”  

“Just please nothing that shows my back,” she requested. “I have some scars there that I’m pretty self-conscious about.”

Gianni narrowed his eyes at her and reached towards the back of her shirt. “May I look?” he asked.

She hesitated, but he was going to see them anyway at some point. So she nodded, and he hissed when he saw the decade's worth of marks her father's abuse had left on her skin, but he promised he’d honor her request.

“Do you know who’s going to mentor me?” she asked.

“Cato Hadley has been assigned to you,” he said cheerfully, but it sounded unnatural and strained, as if there was something he wasn’t saying. She frowned and pictured Cato. All of the women of the Capitol were obsessed with him, and back home most of the girls thought he was hot too. Hera had seen him on tv, and in real life from a distance during his Victory Tour stop in 7, and she had to admit he was attractive, tall and built and blond. But he seemed so cold and ruthless. She remembered his games, remembered how his expression had remained detached and neutral as he ran other children through with his sword. That anyone could so calmly end the life of another....She shivered. She was not looking forward to meeting him.

“And what about Julian?” she asked.

“Alec,” Gianni said.

 _Poor Julian._ She’d rather deal with Cato’s iciness than that sick son of a bitch and his crazy, high-pitched laugh.

\----------

It was while her prep team was in the middle of de-fuzzing her entire body that she overheard Gianni and Trini as they whispered to each other in the corner, and she understood Gianni’s strange tone when he had told her that Cato would be her mentor.

“He’s refusing to train her. He says it’s a waste of his time because she’s just gonna get killed,” she heard Gianni say quietly “And of course, when Alec found out, he immediately followed suit and said the same thing about the boy.”

“Well I won’t stand for it,” Trini huffed. “I’m going to go to Seneca.”

“No, don’t. Trust me, I’ve worked with both of them. You’ll only make Cato resentful, and Alec, well, god knows what that psycho will do. Calm down, let me see if I can persuade the two of them,” Gianni said, but he sounded doubtful.

Although it hadn’t occurred to Hera that Cato would refuse to work with her, once she heard the words it made so much sense given his reputation and demeanor, that she wasn’t shocked. The news didn’t upset her though. If anything she was relieved.

\----------

They put her in a filmy, body-skimming gown embroidered with delicate, sparkling tree branches in shades of gold, olive and chocolate, and they piled her light brown hair on top of her head and wove tiny, dusty green leaves through it. They smudged a rich brown liner into her lashes and put so much fine gold glitter on her lids and cheekbones that some of the pieces got in her eyes, irritating them to no end, and it took all of Hera’s self-control not to rub them furiously with the heels of her hands.

But her costume wasn’t humiliating like the tacky cowgirl outfit poor District 10 had to wear (and what the hell was that on the District 6 tributes’ heads?), and it could have been a lot worse, so she sighed and endured their manhandling without complaint.

As the chariot made its way past the audience, Hera didn’t know how to respond to the sea of faces and cacophony of cheers. She fixed her eyes on the horizon and pretended that the cool air rushing over her cheeks and shoulders was a pine-scented breeze rustling through her hair as she ran through the forest.

Cato, who hadn’t bothered to meet his tribute yet, sat in the box reserved for previous victors, glass of scotch in hand, and decided he should at least spare a glance for the District 7 chariot and its occupants. His gaze skimmed past Julian, but he froze when he saw Hera, and he found he couldn’t look away from her. He thought she held herself like a queen, aloof and dignified, with a faraway look in her eyes. Brutus shook him out of his stupor with an elbow to his ribs. “Well at least they look respectable.” he commented. Cato shoved his impression of Hera to the back of his mind. “Looking respectable doesn’t count for shit in the arena,” he said flatly.


	4. District First

“Now, this is where you’ll be staying for the next three months,” Trini said as they entered the front door of the apartment assigned to the District 7 female. Like the train, it was plush and sleek, with marble floors and velvety furnishings, but it felt a little cold to her. She squealed with delight, however, when she peeked into her bedroom and realized that she had her own bathroom, with a shower, a real shower. There was a bedroom for Trini, who always stayed with the female tribute, and one for her mentor.

“Will Johanna stay here?” Hera asked, although she already knew the answer. She was hoping to meet the only living District 7 victor.

“No, the mentors have been told they must stay with their assigned tributes.”

“You don’t think Cato will actually stay here, do you, since he’s not going to train me?” Trini looked horrified at her question. “I heard you and Gianni talking about it,” Hera said gently. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Trini sighed. “No, he’ll stay here for the sake of appearance. Anyway, his usual room is currently occupied by the District 9 mentor. Come, on, let me show you your training complex. It’s just across the hall. Everything is state-of-the-art, and you don’t have to share it with anyone.”

Hera couldn’t believe how big it was. The facility consisted of a handful of rooms surrounded by a track an eighth of a mile around. There was a sparring room with padded walls and mats on the floor for practicing hand-to-hand combat. There was a huge room with walls lined with weapons—machetes, bows and arrows, swords, spears, and terrifying-looking instruments she’d never seen before. It also had what looked like a small tv screen embedded in the wall, but no targets anywhere, which Hera found strange. There was a weight room, as well. Hera’s favorite aspect of the training facility was the climbing wall at one end of the track.

“Does Julian have one like this?” she asked.

“Mm-hm. Each tribute has their own.”

By the time they walked back across the hall to the apartment, it was getting late, so Hera headed to her room. But she couldn’t quiet her mind enough to fall asleep. She wondered what Uma was doing, wondered what the Callahan family--which had almost become her family--was doing. When her thoughts turned to speculating on how she would be killed in the arena, she decided she couldn't lay there anymore; she slipped back into the training facility. She glanced at the climbing wall longingly, but she thought she should explore something new. She wandered into the weapons room and surveyed her options. Probably best to start small, she decided, choosing a set of ten delicate but wicked-looking knives. Maybe throwing knives wouldn’t be all that different from throwing darts. But where was she supposed to throw it? There weren’t any targets.

The only other thing in the room was the screen in the wall. There were no power buttons like her tv at home had, so she touched the screen lightly with the tip of her finger. It immediately fired itself up and asked her to choose a weapon. At first Hera just stood there, awed by the technology in front of her, and then she tentatively touched the icon that matched the knives in her hand. Then it asked her if she wanted to watch a training video or select a target. _Select a target_. Did she want a fixed or moving target? _Fixed, let’s not get ahead of ourselves._ And what size target? _Medium-sized human_. The screen didn’t ask her any more questions. Instead, the word “Processing” flashed across the screen. What did that mean? What would happen now?

She caught a flash of light in her peripheral vision, and turned to see a glowing green holograph of a featureless human being at the far end of the training room. Hera’s mouth fell open with amazement, and she walked towards the target until she was about an arm’s length away from it. Then she took one of the knives, reached out, and stabbed it where she thought its heart should be.

“Fatal strike,” said a robotic voice.

 _Huh._ Hera returned to the screen, wondering how to get back to the place that offered up the training video. There was an icon in the bottom left-hand corner that said “Back.” She tapped it until it took her to the screen she wanted, and then she selected the training video. First it showed her the proper stance, and then it taught her how to hold the knife and balance its weight in her hand, and she practiced both of these concepts. Then it moved on to proper throwing technique, which Hera tried out without a knife in her hand. Then it was onto aiming.

When she’d gotten through the section on aim, Hera picked up all ten knives and walked back over to the holograph, positioning herself about eight feet away from it. Her first throw caught it in the shoulder, and the mysterious voice informed her that while she’d managed to injure it, she needed to throw with more force. Hera considered this for a bit, and then decided that she’d worry about force later. For now, she would focus on one microskill at a time. She concentrated on perfecting the flick of her wrist, ignoring the voice’s repeated assertions that more force was needed for her to be lethal, and was pleased with herself when she was able to strike the holograph about 90% of the time, although her aim wasn’t perfect, and most of them weren’t fatal. Hera continued to practice until the repetitive motion soothed her mind enough that she began to grow tired.

\----------

The next morning, Hera thought to herself that she had never had such a delicious breakfast. She was used to toast or oatmeal back in District 7, but here she had food she’d only read about in books: pancakes with maple syrup, smoky bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice. She closed her eyes as she bit into a piece of cantaloupe and thought that maybe, just maybe, it was worth dying in the arena if she got to have food like this for the next couple of months. Trini smiled at her and refilled her plate.

Cato was nowhere to be found but considering the discussion she’d overhead between Gianni and Trini, it didn’t shock her. She poured herself a second cup of coffee and flipped through the channels of the Capitol tv. Trini, however, clenched her teeth and glanced repeatedly at Cato’s bedroom door.

He appeared around 11am, fixed himself a plate, and sat down to tuck into it without acknowledging Hera’s presence. Trini glared at him murderously, but Hera had determined that if he was going to ignore her, she’d ignore him too, so she continued to watch tv, conquering the urge to sneak a peek at him. She was relieved that he had decided not to train her, but she did hope he’d at least give her a few pieces of advice to keep her from suffering too much. When he was finished he left the table and returned to his room, ignoring Trini’s exasperated sigh. Hera heard the shower running, and nonchalantly flipped through a fashion magazine on the coffee table, marveling at the garish outfits on the pages.

He emerged from his room fifteen minutes later. Hera thought maybe he would at least say something to her now, but he walked past her as she sat on the couch and headed towards the door. This was too much for Trini, who marched up to him, hands on her hips, and said “So tell me, are you planning to ignore your tribute for the entire three months?”

Cato paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned towards Trini slowly. He raked his eyes up and down her tacky outfit and overly made-up face with derision before turning to face Hera. She let herself look at him for the first time, and considered it a miracle that she managed to keep her expression neutral, because _jesus christ he was beautiful._ He was at least as tall as Dean, maybe even an inch or so taller, and bigger in real life than he appeared on tv, all of it pure muscle. He wore a t shirt, and although she was too proud to to look away from his face to check out his body, she could see from the corners of her eyes that his biceps were solid and sculpted. His gray-blue eyes were sharp and glacial, his features somehow fine and masculine at the same time. He had smooth skin except for his light-colored scruff and the scar that ran through his eyebrow and up his forehead, which he’d earned during his time in the arena. He kept his dark blond hair cropped close to his head on the sides and in the back, but the front and top of it were longer, and rose up in unruly tufts.

“You know you’re gonna die right? Probably in the bloodbath,” he said to her with jaded insouciance.

“I know,” she said, quietly and without emotion. “I knew I was dead the moment I volunteered.” Her dark eyes were steady as they met his cynical gaze, and he was taken aback by their color--a deep blue-green like the sea, which he found strange considering she hailed from woodlands. He studied her for a moment. Her light brown hair was fine, straight and silky in texture. She had a delicate bone structure with high cheekbones and her skin had the clear, luminescent quality of child’s. She was small, at least a foot shorter than him, and slender.

Her calm acceptance of her situation unnerved him. He had expected her to burst into tears or start shaking with fear like most people would have. He wouldn’t even have been surprised if she had reacted with anger. But it had never occurred to him that someone could be so serene at the prospect of certain death in the games. Cato stared at her as if she wasn’t quite right in the head. She shrugged. “It is what it is, “ she said. “What good will it do me to get all worked up?”

“Well good. Then we can agree it’s a waste of both my time and yours for me to train you,” he said.

“Maybe,” she said. “But wouldn’t you be embarrassed if I was the first to be killed? Maybe we could just aim for me to make it past the bloodbath.”

“If you want to do that you should probably just avoid the cornucopia altogether and focus on surviving in the wild.”

She looked at him expectantly. He looked back. “So?” she finally said. “How do I survive in the wild?”

He sighed and stalked over to the dining room table, looking at his watch impatiently. “Bring me a piece of paper and a pen,” he said with some annoyance. Hera complied and Cato spent the next few minutes making a list of survival topics for her to research. Trini, appeased for the time being, left to go socialize with some of the other escorts. When Cato was finished he stood up and started towards the door, leaving the list on the table. “Look that shit up in the database,” he said over his shoulder. Hera scanned the list, and turned to ask him what a database was, but he had already left.

“What the fuck is a database?” she said, turning to the Avox who was clearing the breakfast dishes from the table. She had meant it rhetorically, but the girl smiled at her sympathetically and abandoned her task, beckoning her to the desk in the corner of the living room, which held a small screen like the one from the weapons room.

The Avox silently showed her how to search the database for different articles and tutorials, and it proved to be as intuitive as the screen in the weapons room, so after a few minutes, Hera thanked her and settled down to research water purification.

\----------

“You’re not gonna train her at all?” Lyme asked him when he joined his fellow victors in Clay’s training facility. Her voice was thick with disapproval.

“I gave her some shit to research. You know, survival skills.”

“You need to do more than that.”

“There’s no point. She doesn’t stand a chance.”

“So you’re just gonna let your mentoring stats plummet?”

“They’re not gonna count them this year.”

“Yes they are,” Lyme said.”Why do you think Brutus dumped it on you?”

“Because he doesn’t want to waste his time.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t want to waste his time since it’ll bring down his status.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Giving one district mentoring points for the place a tribute from another district comes in in the games?”

Lyme shrugged. “But they’re doing it. Heard it straight from Seneca Crane. So if you don’t train her, not only will your individual stats plummet, but you’ll hurt our overall record. We’ve been in first place for eight years now. And 1 isn’t too far behind us so…”

“Fuuuuuuck,” Cato said with exasperation as he threw his head back.

“District first,” Lyme said.

“District first,” he echoed bitterly.

“It won’t be that bad. Just spend a few hours a day on her. That should get her into the top ten. You can spend the rest of your time down here with us.”

“Fine,” he sighed and rolled his eyes.

\----------

“What can you do?” he asked Hera the next morning.

“What can I _do_?” she repeated.

“Yeah. I’m gonna make the educated guess that you have no experience whatsoever with weapons, but can you do anything else? Like are you a fast runner?”

“I can climb.”

“Show me.”

He led her over to the climbing wall and leaned against it to wait for her to strap herself into her harness, but to his amazement she took a running leap and skittered up to the top of the wall thirty feet above him in about seven seconds, her feet and hands barely touching each grip before launching off and up to the next one.

Cato stared at her in shock while she slipped back down. When she was still six feet off the ground, she let go and twisted in mid-air, landing gracefully on her feet with hardly a sound.

He recovered his composure just before she turned to face him. “Well maybe you’re not a complete waste of my time,” he said.

“I practiced throwing knives the last two nights too,” she said.

“You use the training tutorial?”

“Yeah.”

“You hit anything?”

“Sometimes.”

He laughed skeptically. “Well keep practicing that, I guess. I’m decent at it but it’s not really my specialty, and I probably won’t be of any more help to you in that area than the tutorial.”

\----------

He had decided she should practice archery and throwing light spears to make her more versatile with long-range weapons. And she needed to learn some hand-to-hand combat for defensive purposes, although ideally she shouldn’t get close enough to anyone to have to engage in it. Swords were no good, he told her. Most would be too heavy for her and her reach was too short. Weight training wasn’t worth it at all. She already had enough strength to climb with ease, and even if she lifted weights every day up until the games, she’d never be able to overpower most of the male tributes, so it would be a “poor return on her investment.” _Whatever that means,_ she thought. He said she needed to continue climbing every day. And to spend sprinting and running long distances and learning survival skills.

He told Hera all this as he mapped out a training schedule for the next week for her that morning. He handed it to her and she scanned it.

“How will I learn the hand-to-hand combat?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are there holographs I can practice on in that room? I didn’t see a training video or a screen like the one in the weapons room in there.”

“No, you’ll practice with me,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering what it would feel like to touch him. To have his hands on her body. I _’ll find out soon enough_ she said to herself, as butterflies gathered in her stomach.

\----------

Cato was eating breakfast the next morning when Hera ambled out around 8am, still half-asleep it seemed. She took a seat across from him and slathered a croissant with butter.

He was reading an article that gave a brief overview on each tribute for this year’s games, and he was paying special attention to the profile of the District 1 female, Glimmer. She’d caught his eye at the parade the other night, and he was wondering how he could finagle his way into getting inside of her when he was distracted by the noise issuing from Hera’s throat.

“Mmmm. Sooooo goooood,” she mumbled. She was chewing her croissant and her eyes were closed.

He side-eyed her.

When she opened her eyes he was still looking at her. “I’m a simple girl,” she said, and shrugged. “It’s the little things.”

“The little things?”

“Yeah, the little things that get me going.” He didn’t say anything and continued to stare at her caustically. “The little things. Like this,” she said looking at the croissant she was holding. “And the first sip of coffee of the day,” she said as she added milk to her steaming mug. “And the sunlight in the morning.” She gestured towards the window on the eastern wall.

“The little things?” he asked again.

“Yeah. You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You don’t have little things that just, like, make your day?”

He studied her. Her hair was pulled into a disheveled knot on top of her head. A few pieces had fallen out and brushed against her collarbone, which peeked out from a white v-neck undershirt. Her lids were heavy over her still-sleepy eyes, and the sunlight that spilled into the room illuminated her cheekbones. _The way you look right now_ , he thought, and then quashed the sentiment immediately. “No,” he said flatly.

“Ok then,” she said, raising her eyebrows and going back to her croissant. “Sorry I asked.”

He went back to his article, but she interrupted him again, this time with a question.

“Am I gonna train with Julian at all?”

“With who?”

“My district partner.”

“No. No working with anyone else. You get attached. It brings you down in the arena.”

“But don’t the Careers all work together every year?”

“That’s different. _You_ are not a Career. You’re just a dead girl walking.”

  
  



	5. Treading Water

“I like that sound,” she said as Cato poured himself a scotch on the rocks early that evening after their first morning of training. He had just showered, and Alec had texted to say he wasn’t quite ready to go out yet, so he had some time to kill.

“What sound?” he asked her.

“The sound your ice makes against the glass.”

He frowned and swirled his drink a little, and the ice clinked against the glass pleasantly, comfortingly.

“This?” he asked, and she nodded, a look of tentative friendliness on her face.

He liked the sound too. He just hadn’t realized it until she said it. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“You’re fucking weird,” he said instead, and scrunched up his nose.

“Asshole,” she said, and her features dropped into a scowl.

\----------

They spent about three hours together in the mornings and Hera hated every second of it, even though she was learning from him.

He was a natural at instructing. His tone and demeanor were icy, of course, and he seemed perpetually annoyed with her, but he had a way of explaining concepts and demonstrating techniques that made it easy for her to learn quickly.

He started out by teaching her how to hold herself defensively and how to block punches and strikes, although he didn’t actually hit her. They did everything in slow motion at first. After a while they worked up to what Hera thought was a normal pace, but Cato told her that no, that was really only about half-speed.

He didn’t say much to her except when he was explaining a skill or correcting her technique in a cold, clipped tone. Sometimes he muttered about how much she sucked compared to his students at the Academy and what a waste of time this was.

She was determined to match his stoniness, so she didn’t say anything either, except when she had a question about what he was teaching her.

She still thought he was hot, but she was too focused on learning the task at hand to spend much time appreciating how physically attractive he was. That and he was a dick.

The moment the clock struck noon, he left to be with his own people from 2, and she spent her afternoons studying survival skills and running and climbing and practicing archery and throwing spears. Then she showered and ate dinner before returning to the weapons room to play with her knives.

She saw him briefly most evenings after he’d returned to the apartment to shower and get ready to go out with Brutus or Alec and Lars, and every once in a while he ate lunch or dinner with her and Trini and Gianni, but they didn’t really interact with one another. And he almost never came home before 1am, when she was already in bed.

Her days were lonely, but she was sure that loneliness was better than spending her entire day with her asshole of a mentor.

\----------

Cato had just finished getting dressed and he was about to leave to meet up with Brutus when he heard Gianni’s voice from the living room.

“You ever watch Hera’s reaping before? I mean really _watched_ it?” he said. He was sitting on the couch, reviewing the footage of it on the tv.

“What about it?” Cato asked, coming to stand behind the couch.

“She’s so _brave_. Look.” He backed up to the part where the little Callahan girl’s name was called.

Cato hadn’t watched the footage since the day he and Alec learned they’d be mentoring the tributes from 7, and he’d simply written Hera off as dead that day. But as he watched her reaping a second time, he was struck by her demeanor. Her voice when she volunteered was unwavering and certain. And she pushed the other girls in her age group aside resolutely and without hesitation as she moved to the center aisle.

“Nah, she’s just in shock,” he said, but he knew he was lying.

“She _volunteered_. To save the life of another person.”

“There’s nothing special about volunteering. We do it every year. So does 1. So does 4 sometimes.”

“Yes, but you all volunteer for the glory and the money and the fame. She volunteered for the sake of another human being.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is I think she’s braver than all of you.”

“And I think you’re asking to get your ass beat,” Cato said. He was nettled at the voice in the back of his head that whispered to him that Gianni’s words just might be true.

Gianni let out a short laugh. “I’m not afraid of you. Who will dress your tribute if you beat my ass? Now go hang out with the other meatheads."

\----------

Cato ate breakfast with Hera and Trini and Gianni every day, and every once in awhile he joined them for lunch or dinner. Hera spent most of her meals listening to her stylist and escort and asking them questions about themselves, but sometimes she offered up glimpses of her own life back in 7, and Cato learned that she had dropped out of school less than a year ago to look after the four children of a widower.

Trini had asked her about Tara, the little girl she’d volunteered to replace, and Hera talked about how shy and sweet-natured the little girl was, and how she missed braiding her hair every morning before she went to school. Her voice sounded affectionate and warm, and when Cato glanced up from his scrambled eggs discreetly he noticed how soft her face was.

The camera had captured all four of the Callahan children’s reactions at the reaping, and so Cato was able to picture Hera standing behind the twelve-year-old and brushing through her dark hair with her small, graceful hands..

He dropped his eyes back to his food. His hair had never been long, but he could remember his mother running her hands through it when he was little, before he’d gone to the Academy.

The memory of it made him feel like picking up his plate and hurling it into the mirror on the wall behind Hera.

\----------

 _Monster_ the little boy’s head said to him, blood streaming from its mouth. _You're a monster_. Cato tried to run away from the talking head with its dead green eyes, but his feet were rooted to the spot. He tried to protest but the words stuck in his throat. And then a fifteen-year-old girl with black hair and a gaping wound in her chest crawled over to sit beside the head and join her voice with his. _Monster_ she said. _You’re a monster_. He turned his torso to run but his legs wouldn’t follow. He tried to close his eyes but his lids stayed stubbornly open. And then a seventeen-year-old girl with freckles on her face and a spear through her gut rose out of the marsh. _Monster_ she said.

Panic was welling up in his lungs.

And then he heard a fourth voice. But this one was different. This one was singing a lullaby. In a voice that was low and soft and sweet and rich like honey. The first three voices fell silent and a comforting haze set in around him. A deep blue-green haze, a haze the color of the sea, a haze that blocked the three ghosts from his view. And as the singer finished her lullaby, it darkened to velvety black.

And so it continued every time his nightmares cropped up, solidifying into a pattern. His ghosts would appear to haunt him, crying _monster, monster,_ and then the lullaby would chase them away into a thick ocean-colored fog that faded to black.

And he began to look forward to his nightmares, to welcome them with open arms.

\----------

Hera looked at the clock. 2:16am.

At first she couldn’t figure out what had woken her up. And then she heard muffled whimpers through the wall that separated her room from Cato’s. She thought maybe he’d brought some girl home, and she groaned with disgust. But they didn’t sound like _those_ kinds of whimpers.

When she peeked into Cato’s room she saw him tossing and turning restlessly, like he was having a bad dream, and she wondered if she should wake him.

 _That would be weird, though. Me coming into his room and waking him up_. She started to close the door.

But then he let out another whine. She opened the door wider and examined his face in the light from the window. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was clenched. He looked like a little boy. Like Cole when he was upset. Whatever he was dreaming about was clearly distressing. Part of her said _Fuck him. He’s a big boy. He can deal with this on his own._ But the other part of her felt sorry for him.

The two sides warred with each other for a minute before motherly Hera won. So she stood in the doorway and opened her mouth and she started to sing softly. A lullaby that she had often sung to Mia. By the time she had finished the song, he had grown still and quiet, and his brow had smoothed itself out, so she returned to her bed.

\----------

“He was making noises in his sleep last night,” she told Gianni. “Like he was having nightmares. I heard it through the wall.” She didn’t mention that she had opened his door and sung to him.

“That’s because he _does_ have nightmares.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I went with him on his Victory Tour. And on Alec’s. He had them almost every night. If last night was the first time you’ve heard them maybe they’re slowing down.”

“What are they about?”

“I never asked him. But they seemed to be especially bad both times we were in District 3.”

Hera cocked her head questioningly.

“His first kill--and his youngest--was a 12-year-old boy from 3,” Gianni explained.

“I didn’t know he was capable of remorse.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about Cato.”

“And I’m happy to keep it that way.”

But she continued to wake to the sound of him wrestling with his nightmares once or twice a week, and she couldn’t go back to sleep while he cried out in misery, so each and every time, she pulled herself from beneath her covers with a sigh and cracked his door open just enough to allow him to hear her lift her voice in song until he relaxed back into a peaceful slumber, and then she returned to the warmth of her bed.

\----------

They had somehow gotten onto the topic of discussing their favorite seasons at breakfast one morning. Trini and Gianni both liked summer, but Hera said that she liked fall best.

“Cato, didn’t you tell me once that you liked fall?” Gianni asked.

Cato looked up from his eggs and sighed to show that he was annoyed at being brought into the conversation. “Not fall,” he said tiredly. “The very _end_ of fall, the moment it turns into winter.”

Hera was looking at him curiously. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he said impatiently. “I just do. I like the air.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “How it feels. How it smells.”

“How it _smells_?” Trini asked, scrunching up her face. “What does it smell like?”

“I don’t know how to describe it,” he snapped. “Now leave me alone.”

“Sharp and clean,” Hera broke in. “Metallic. Like a knife blade.”

Cato snapped his head back up to look at her, astonished at how she’d known exactly what he’d meant. How easily she’d been able to put it into words for him.

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” the unimaginative and literal-minded Trini said.

“Isn’t that how you’d describe it?” Hera asked Cato.

“No,” he said. “That’s not how I’d describe it at all. Now shut the fuck up and let me eat my breakfast in peace.”

\----------

He woke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. He liked watching thunderstorms, and he rolled over in bed to look out his window, but the building on the other side of the street blocked most of the sky from his view, so he rose and went out to the living room to stand and watch from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The lightning had begun to strike with more frequency and the sound of the thunder was getting closer when he noticed her, sitting in the armchair that faced the windows, curled up in a ball.

“How long have you been out here?” he asked.

“Since a couple minutes before you came in.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the storm. What are you doing?”

“Watching the storm.”

“I’ll leave if you want,” she said.

“Do whatever you want. I don’t care.” He turned back around to watch the storm play out.

Half an hour later the rain had stopped and the thunder had calmed itself down to a low, disgruntled rumble. He turned to find Hera asleep in the chair, her head resting on its plush, cushy arm. In the light from the street he could see the shadows that her lashes cast on her cheeks and the way the strands of hair that had fallen out of her topknot brushed across her bare collarbone. Her lips were slightly parted and her breathing was deep and slow and even. She looked peaceful and angelic.

He didn’t like it.

So he picked up a pillow from the couch and threw it at her. “Go back to bed,” he said gruffly when she flinched and blinked.

“Fuck off,” she called after him softly as he made his way down the hallway and back to his room..

\----------

Her waist was tiny. He could span the curves of it with his two hands when he tossed her to the ground. Her skin was warm. He could feel it through her t shirt. She smelled like soap and sunshine and her hair slipped through his fingers like silk when he yanked on it. She was small, but soft everywhere he touched her, except for her ribs and her shoulder blades and her hipbones, which felt sharp on the pads of his thumbs.

He thought--somewhat begrudgingly--that she’d had an attractive figure to begin with, but as the days went on he could feel her tightening and becoming even more lithe between his palms, and one day he found himself getting hard just after he’d pinned her against the wall.

“I gotta take a piss,” he said, and escaped to the bathroom for a few minutes.

After that he began to jerk off every morning, right after breakfast and before they started training, so she wouldn’t find out that his body was drawn to hers.

\----------

She was telling Trini about Cole and how he’d once tried to scare her by bringing a frog into the house, but that she’d just laughed and gone out into the rain with him to jump in the puddles and catch more frogs. Her eyes were shining with the memory of it, and her laugh was low and throaty.

Cato had once brought a frog into the house, and his mother had nearly jumped out of his skin and screamed at him to take it outside. He smiled wistfully to himself for just a second before he felt a sudden pang of longing in his chest.

He shook himself and looked up at Hera. “You can talk later. Hurry up and finish eating. The sooner we start the sooner I can go leave to help Clay.”

\----------

He’d spent the majority of his time as a trainer at the Academy teaching swordsmanship, so he had never really studied Clay in hand-to-hand combat until now. He noticed that the tribute sometimes made two simple, avoidable mistakes as he and Alec engaged in a boxing match. First, he dropped his left shoulder, and by extension his hand, leaving that side of his face vulnerable. And second, his eyes lingered for too long on the part of his opponent’s body he intended to strike next, making it easy for them to anticipate what he was going to do and dodge the blow. Brutus and the other mentors admonished him to correct these weaknesses, but neither Clay nor his trainers seemed to understand _why_ he committed them in the first place. _It’s when he gets the upperhand. He gets complacent, and he doesn’t realize he’s doing it until someone points it out_ , Cato realized.

If Cato were fighting him, he would lure Clay into complacency, and then jab him in the left side of his face. But if I were short, _I’d need to use an uppercut, not a jab,_ he thought.

Cato knew he should share his observation with Clay, but for some reason he couldn’t explain to himself, he didn’t.

\----------

That night he went to the bar with Alec and Lars and he ordered a scotch on the rocks.

 _Hera_ , the ice said merrily to him as it bumped against the side of the glass. _Hera_.

\----------

Every morning as she sat up in bed she winced at the stiffness of her body, which was exhausted from her training with Cato. He was teaching her how to bounce back from being thrown to the ground, and how to roll with punches to her abdomen, and she had accumulated an impressive array of bruises on her hips and her shoulders, on her stomach and the sides of her thighs.

But she was determined not to let him know that she was in pain. She was, after all, still Hera Greenleaf from District 7. She was still her father’s daughter. And so she soldiered on every day without flinching and without calling for a reprieve.

 

 


	6. Against the Current

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cato's "butcher or cattle" comment is from The Walking Dead.

Cato decided he needed a break from partying. He'd had more liquor than usual the night before and now he was paying for it with a vicious hangover.

“You’re on your own today. I’m too fucking hungover,” he groaned when Hera knocked on his bedroom door, and he rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he awoke, it was mid afternoon. He gulped down some water and forced himself to eat a greasy burger and fries, knowing it would make him feel better in the long run. After his shower, he felt halfway human again, so he walked out of the apartment and across the hall to the training complex to see what Hera was up to.

“Fatal strike,” he heard the mechanical voice from the weapons room say as soon as he entered the facility. She must have been practicing with spears or knives or arrows. “Fatal strike, fatal strike.” the voice said again, about 5 seconds later, and Cato stopped in his tracks. When had she gotten so good? He peeked through the doorway, and there was his tribute, tossing knives at holographs as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Fatal-fatal strike,” the voice said as she struck two moving targets so quickly that the voice couldn’t even finish announcing the first kill before it interrupted itself to declare the second. Cato couldn’t believe it; she’d hit both targets in their left eyes.

He stepped further into the room, and she turned towards him with astonishing speed and agility, and let fly one of her knives towards his head. Luckily, she realized he wasn’t a holograph at the last nanosecond, and her wrist hesitated just enough to throw her aim off by a few centimeters, the knife embedding itself in the wall beside his head. It was equally lucky that Cato had superb reflexes and jerked out of the way just in time; otherwise she would have nicked him in spite of her momentary hesitation.

“Whoa! What the fuck?!”

“Sorry,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time practicing with your knives, I see,” he observed coolly, trying to hide the surge of admiration that had replaced his shock.

“Every night after dinner,” she said.

“Do it again.”

During their exchange, two more of the holographs had materialized and were rapidly advancing on her. She turned and disposed of them neatly, once again striking each in the left eye.

 _Holy shit_ he thought to himself. _She could win this thing_.

xxxxxxxxxx

That night he stayed for dinner and he started to plan out her strategy in the arena.

“No direct contact with anyone. None.”

“But what if I run into someone.”

“You attack. You put a knife through their eye. But ideally you’re not _going_ to run into anyone. You’re gonna stay in the trees and let _them_ hunt _you_ and when they wander into range you’ll pick them off. One by one.”

“I’m not gonna do that. If someone attacks me I’ll fight with everything I’ve got, but I’m not gonna strike first and I’m sure as hell not gonna sit up in a tree and pick people off. I’m not a monster.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at her. “A monster, huh? I take it you’re referring to me.”

It hadn’t been her intention to make that implication, but now that he’d said it... “If the shoe fits…”

“And what about all the other tributes? From all the other districts? Who get thrown in there and run across each other on accident and attack out of fear and panic because they’re afraid that if they don’t, the other one will kill them first. The ones that didn’t volunteer. The ones that just want to go home. Are they monsters?” 

She was quiet.

“How’s the view from up there?” he continued. “On your high horse? You think you’ll stay in the saddle when you’re thrown in with all the rest? Because I don’t think you will. I think you’re a hypocrite. I think you’re gonna find out that at some point you have to make a choice. You’re either the butcher or you’re the cattle, and there’s no in between.”

And he walked out of the apartment, leaving her speechless with shame. Because he was right. She didn’t truly know what she would do. And never in a million years would she have thought that Cato Hadley would be the one to school her on her morals, to call her on her self-righteousness.

xxxxxxxxxx

She was talking about Reese, and how he’d had a hard time learning to read. So every day he would choose a book and she would pull him up on her lap and press her cheek to his, and together they would sound out the words. “Sometimes it would take us half an hour to get through the book,” she said to Trini and laughed, but this time it sounded bittersweet.

Cato’s mother had read to him every night. They had been halfway through The Jungle Book when he’d been taken away from her and placed in the Academy. He’d never finished it. He stared out the window and wondered if he could find a copy.

“Cato,” Hera’s voice cut in. “Hellooo? Are you in there? I asked you three times if you’re ready to go.”

“Does it look like I’m ready to go?” he growled at her. “Speak when spoken to bitch.”

“God you are such a dick,” she said and threw her napkin in his face as she got up to leave the table.

xxxxxxxxxx

“You get inside your tribute yet?” Clay asked him that afternoon as they lifted weights together.

“Huh?”

“I said did you get inside of her?”

“Oh. No.”

“Are you planning to?”

“She’s not exactly my type if you haven’t noticed.”

“I don’t know, man, she looked pretty hot at the tribute parade. She a virgin?”

“Haven’t asked.”

“God I hope she is. Find out for me. If she is I’ll call dibs on killing her to the others. It’ll be so much fun to pop that cherry before I slice her head off.”

Cato was seized with an overwhelming urge to smash Clay’s teeth down his throat with the forty-pound hand weight, but he forced himself to laugh instead.

xxxxxxxxxx

He taught her jabs and hooks and crosses. But he made her practice uppercuts on the punching bag for what seemed like an eternity.

“Why are you so obsessed with the uppercut?” she asked sullenly.

“Because you suck at it and I’m trying to prolong your life you ungrateful cunt. Although I really don’t know why I’m wasting my time.”

“Why don’t you come over here and I’ll practice on you?”

He chuckled darkly. “Trust me. You don’t want that.”

xxxxxxxx

It was one of the rare nights when Cato ate dinner in the District 7 apartment, and she was telling Gianni and Trini about Mia, the baby, and how, after she was done reading with Reese, she’d sing her lullabies and rock her to sleep.

“Do you sing?” Gianni asked her excitedly.

“Oh god no,” she said.

“I wanna hear you sing!” Gianni exclaimed, and Trini nodded enthusiastically.

“No, no way. Trust me, you don’t want to hear me sing.”

“Yes, please spare us the misery,” Cato cut in, and she shot him a caustic glance.

“Alright, alright,” Gianni conceded. “You must really love her if you sing to her.”

“I love babies,” she said, and a dreamy expression crossed her face.

“Too bad you’ll never have one of your own,” Cato said sarcastically. He regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth.

He heard Trini and Gianni gasp in shock, but Hera was silent. Her face froze over, and the light drained from her eyes. They were hard as they met his, but he could see the pain in their depths. He felt sick to his stomach but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He shrugged at her and smirked. “What? I’m just being honest.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, and her voice shook from her effort to control it.

He rolled his eyes, but she didn’t see it. She had already left the table.

xxxxxxxxxx

Clay was smashing her skull in with a rock, and she was screaming. Cato was running towards her as fast he could but his feet felt like lead and with each strike the rock came away bloodier, and her screams grew softer and softer until they died down to whimpers. “Hera!” he shouted. “Hera!” He finally reached the two of them and he ripped Clay off of her, breaking the other man’s neck and throwing his body to the side. Then he collapsed on his knees and leaned down to put his hands on either side of her face, to smooth the bloody strands of hair off of her forehead. “Hera,” he said pleadingly, but the light began to seep out of her eyes like the tide returning to the sea. “Hera no. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

He jerked awake, and then sighed with relief as he realized it had just been a dream. _But it seemed so real. And where was my lullaby? Where was my sea green haze?_ he thought as he stared up at the ceiling.

He replayed the nightmare over in his head and he felt dread creep into his chest at the very likely possibility of this particular dream coming true.

xxxxxxxxxx

He was having a bad dream again. _Let him suffer through it_ she thought bitterly, still angry from the words he’d so carelessly tossed at her that evening. She lay there, sighing and waiting for his nightmare to pass so she could go back to sleep, when all of a sudden he yelled out her name in terror. She sat up in bed, sure that her ears were deceiving her, but there it was again, clear as day. “Hera!” She turned and put her feet to the floor, but she didn’t stand up. She didn’t know what to do. _What is he dreaming about? Why is he calling my name?_ “Hera,” he implored in a broken voice. “Hera no. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

She sat there, paralyzed with shock and confusion, until long after the sounds of his fear and anguish had ceased. Then she lay back down and pulled her blankets up to her chin. But she stared at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep for another hour.

xxxxxxxxxx

They had practiced everything piecemeal so far. But now he started to put it all together. He threw her to the ground, and he pinned her, and he punched her, and she took it like a champ. She relaxed her limbs, and landed on her shoulders. She rolled with his punches. She squirmed out of his hold. Sometimes she punched him back. He gave her no praise but she was proud of how far she had come over the past two months.

But she hated herself at the same time.

She hated herself because she loved the full weight of his warm body pressing her into the mat, and she had to fight the urge to buck her hips up into his.

She hated herself because a thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins every time his hands slipped around her waist and her feet left the ground just before he tossed her onto her back or her side.

She hated herself because the feel of him slamming her body into the mat caused her to throb between her legs.

She hated herself because she could feel wetness seep from inside of her when he yanked on her hair.

She hated herself because she wanted to beg him to continue. “Do it again,” she wanted to say. “Please do it again.”

She didn’t understand how she could feel this way about someone who treated her like shit. What was wrong with her? She had no idea, and it scared her.

xxxxxxxx

She eyed the dark-red lacquered pumps dubiously. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” she told Trini and Gianni. “What if I break my ankle?” The heels had to be at least four inches high.

“Well that’s why we’re going to practice, silly,” Trini said to her.

“You have to wear them,” Gianni insisted. “I’ve designed the perfect outfit for the sponsor gala and it won’t look complete without these.”

Hera slipped them on and stood up hesitantly, unsure of how to balance herself in them. Trini held her by the arm and let her just stand there for a couple of minutes as she adjusted to the feeling of putting her weight onto the balls of her feet. Then she practiced taking small, slow steps, letting the heel touch the ground before setting the rest of her foot down. After a while, Hera found that she could walk at a natural pace in the heels. She turned her head to the side to look at her reflection in the window, and felt a vain rush of pleasure as she noticed how the heels made her legs look long and lean, her rear end high and tight. She turned to where the other two stood at the far end of the living room and let out a giggle. Trini smiled at her warmly and Gianni laughed

“Oooo girl!” he called out. “Look. At. You. You’re gonna do me proud at the sponsor gala. You know, here in the Capitol we call those fuck me pumps. And you do look positively fuckable my dear.”

“Gianni!” Hera and Trini exclaimed at the same time. Hera could feel warmth wash over her cheeks, and she knew she was blushing as red as her shoes.

“Well I think she looks ridiculous,” Cato’s voice said. Hera turned to see him emerging from the hallway.

“What are _you_ doing here? Aren’t you normally out chasing snatch by this time?” she snapped.

He eyed her with a mixture of amusement and derision. “I was napping. Resting up for the hunt. _God_ I can’t get over how ridiculous you look in those,” he laughed.

“You seem to like them on other girls well enough,” Gianni cut in.

“On other girls, yes.” He jerked his head toward Hera. “On her it’s like putting a dog in clothes.” Hera felt humiliated and foolish, and she slipped the shoes off immediately.

“Oh please. You’re blind if you can’t see how sexy she is,” Gianni said.

Cato flashed him a skeptical look, a look that said _Seriously?_ “There’s a reason I haven’t made a pass at her.”

“You can stop talking around me like I’m not in the room,” she said sullenly. “I’m right here.”

“What’s that annoying sound?” he asked Gianni. “Do you hear it?”

His cruel laugh followed her down the hallway and into her room, and she could still hear it even after she slammed the door.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato was having trouble coming. The girl on the kitchen counter didn’t know it, but Cato did. And he was starting to get frustrated. Which wasn’t good. Because then his dick would go limp.

He studied the girl as he continued his thrusting and grunting. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open and her head was banging rhythmically against the cupboard. He didn’t understand what the problem was. She was no different than every other bitch he picked up. Long lashes (extensions, of course). Pouty lips (collagen injections, of course). Big tits that didn’t really bounce all that much (silicone implants, of course).

He realized he didn’t really find any of that attractive anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help so he opened them again and looked toward the door of the girl’s apartment, wondering if it would be possible to somehow fake an orgasm.

And then he saw the heels by the entrance table. They reminded him of Hera’s fuck me pumps. _But Hera’s are a darker red,_ he said to himself, and his mind conjured up the memory of her striding gracefully across the living room floor in her heels and her leggings and her hoodie. He closed his eyes and there she was, sitting on the counter in front of him, wearing nothing but those heels, her legs wrapped around his waist. He thought about the profile of her ass, how it formed a tight, round curve and then dipped down to meet up with the back of her thigh and he cupped it in his hands and squeezed as he thrust into her. He thought about how the light reflected off of the silky, baby-fine hair on the crown of her head and he twined his fingers through it as he kissed her passionately. He thought about the way her eyes looked first thing in the morning, when their color was especially deep and rich, and she looked up at him through half-closed lids. “Fuck me,” she begged. “Please Cato. Please fuck me.”

“Oh my god, _Hera_ ,” he breathed softly as his body shook with his orgasm.

“It’s Camille.”

The flat voice brought him back to reality and he opened his eyes, disgusted to find not a soft, delicate, warm, little Hera in front of him, but an overly made-up, overly processed, generic Capitol doll. She had stopped moving and if looks could have killed he would have been dead already.

“I don’t give a shit what your name is,” he said coldly and pulled out of her.

“ _Hera_?” she said in disbelief, but he had already zipped up his pants and was heading for the door. “That mousy little tribute of yours? That scum from District 7? _That’s_ who you were thinking about? There’s nothing even remotely attractive about her.”

“At least her tits are real,” he called over his shoulder, and he slammed the door behind him.

xxxxxxxxxx

She was eating the first ice cream sundae she’d ever had in her life. With chocolate sauce and whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. And a maraschino cherry on top. She ate it slowly, wonderingly, and Cato watched her in fascination. She scooped up some whipped cream and took little licks, watching the fluffy cloud on her spoon grow smaller and smaller. She used her finger to swipe the last bit of chocolate sauce from the bowl.

But it was the cherry she liked best. She had saved it until last. “Mmmm,” she moaned, pulling off the stem as she sucked the juice out of the little red jewel.

It was both adorable and sexy and it was starting to get him hard.

He had to put a stop to it. Immediately.

“That’s right. Fatten yourself up like a pig before the slaughter,” he said, making his voice sound disgusted. “You know, come to think of it, I have noticed it’s harder to throw you around these days. And I’ve noticed you’ve gained some extra...cushioning...right here,” he said, pointing to his hips. “What do they call that? Muffin top?”

It wasn’t true, any of it, and even if she had gained five or ten pounds, she’d still be slender. But something ugly had taken root inside of him long ago and ripened into toxicity, and he couldn’t rein it in.

As he watched her face fall, his chest began to ache. She pushed the bowl away and left the table abruptly.

He sat staring into the mirror on the wall across from him for ten minutes after she left and all he saw was a monster.

xxxxxxxxx

She was in a nasty mood the next day. Her anger and resentment at Cato had begun to build up until she felt like a pressure cooker with no outlet for steam, ready to explode.

Thankfully, he didn’t appear at breakfast, and when she was finished, she went to her weapons room and practiced with the spear, and then with the bow, and finally with her knives, grateful when he failed to show up at all that morning. She had just killed four moving targets, one right after the other, when she heard his voice from the doorway.

“I’m beginning to think I’ll only be kind of embarrassed by your performance instead of completely humiliated.” Her rage began to boil up inside of her. _Why can’t he just fucking admit I’m good at this?_

“Why are you so fucking insecure?” she spat at him.

“ _What?_ ” he asked, stepping fully into the room.

“Why are you so fucking insecure that you have to treat me like shit?”

“I’m not insecure.”

“I think you are. I think you feel threatened by how good I am at this.”

“ _Threatened?_ You think you’re that good? You think--” he threw his head back and laughed. “You think I wouldn’t tear your ass apart if we were up against each other in the games?”

“If I didn’t have a knife of course you would. But if I did…”

“There’s no way.”

His face was growing serious, and she could sense him becoming angry, but she was past the point of caring. She was going to die soon anyway, why not provoke him and get it over with? “I’m pretty sure the one I almost put through your eye that one day says otherwise,” she said haughtily.

“You better shut that smart little mouth of yours,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Make me,” she challenged him with chin lifted and eyes narrowed, and she meant it.

Fury flashed across his face and he had her up against the wall in an instant, one of his hands around her throat. But she felt no fear. Instead, her anger, which had been red-hot up until now, hardened and crystallized into something just as powerful, but clearer and more calculating.

“You’re lucky I’m not going into that arena with you,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” she shot at him, egging him on.

“Because if I was I’d take my time with you.” He wrapped his free hand around her index finger, and bent it backwards just enough to hurt it without snapping it, but she steeled her features and refused to flinch at the pain. “I’d break these tiny little fingers of yours. One by one.”

He moved to her palm and again, bent it backwards as far as it could go without breaking. “And these tiny little wrists. I’d move onto those next.”

He slid his fingers beneath her back, and rested his thumb on her side, squeezing her already bruised flesh. “And then I’d crack your tiny little ribs.”

His hand came up to grasp her topknot and he tugged on it slowly, but unrelentingly. “I’d rip the hair from your scalp.” Her fingers found the hilt of the knife in her belt, and she stealthily freed it from its sheath.

“But I wouldn’t touch your face,” he said, and ran a finger down her cheek. Slowly. Almost sensually. “Oh no, not your face.” His hand joined the other one still at her throat, and he squeezed just enough to narrow her airway a bit. “Because I’d want to watch every little expression that played across it as I wrung the breath from your body.”

“That would be awfully hard to do with a knife in your eye,” she whispered as she dragged her blade across his ribs. Slowly. Almost sensually.

He blinked once and inhaled sharply as she cut him, and she felt his body vibrate, almost imperceptibly, with the tiniest of shivers.

“Am I interrupting something?” They both snapped their heads towards the voice. Brutus was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed.

“Not at all,” Hera said calmly. Cato released her neck and turned slowly to face his mentor.

“You’ve got a little something,” she said to him with a tone of mocking helpfulness. “Right there.” She pointed to the blood seeping through his t shirt.

“Thanks,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Anytime.” She gave him her sweetest smile and batted her eyelashes at him before turning and walking towards the door.

“Bitch!” Cato called after her.

“Dick,” she tossed over her shoulder without turning around.

“Brutus,” she said, acknowledging him with a curt nod. He bowed his head in return, the corners of his mouth pricking up with amusement, and stepped to the side to allow her to pass through the doorway.

xxxxxxxxx

Cato sat in a booth in a dark corner of the bar, reminiscing about his training days at the Academy with Brutus.

“I remember when you had that crush on Becca Jameson,” Brutus said. “Do you remember? You would have been about 10 or 11.”

“How did you know about that?”

Brutus laughed. “It was obvious.”

“No it wasn’t. I made fun of her and I pulled her hair and I kicked her in the shins and made her cry.”

“My point exactly. It was obvious. If you hadn’t have had a crush on her you wouldn’t have paid much attention to her. But you made it your mission to make her life a living hell. You put energy into it, time into it.”

“Why are you bringing this up?”

“Because I see you haven’t changed since then. You’ve just taken it to a whole new level.”

Cato opened his mouth to refute Brutus’s statement, but the older man cut him off.

“Just be careful, son. This isn’t pulling pigtails. The stakes are a lot higher with this one.”

xxxxxxxxxx

He dreamt about his altercation with Hera that night. In vivid detail. He saw the defiance in her eyes and heard the conviction in her voice as she whispered her retort. He felt the sharp sear of her knife in his flesh.

He awoke with his fist wrapped around his cock, and he bit his lip as he stroked himself. _That would be awfully hard to do with a knife in your eye_ , she said softly and he stifled a moan and came with a shudder.

 

 


	7. Head Underwater

The next afternoon, Cato returned to the District 7 floor earlier than usual to shower and get ready for dinner after spending the entire day in Clay’s complex.

He’d told himself he was avoiding Hera so he wouldn’t lose his temper and strangle her to death, but Brutus’s suggestion that he had some kind of a crush on her had more to do with it than he was willing to admit. It was true that he wanted her, but that meant nothing considering he’d had sex with countless women. He did _not_ have a crush on her, and therefore he was _not_ going to spend any more time or energy on her than absolutely necessary as her mentor.

He was about to go into the apartment when he heard Gianni’s voice coming from Hera’s training complex.

 _What is he doing in there?_ Cato wondered, and went to investigate.  He heard Gianni’s voice again, coming from the direction of the sparring room.

“Look at you!” he was exclaiming. “You’re covered in bruises! Do they hurt?”

“What does it look like?”  he heard Hera snip.  “Of course they do.”

Cato angled himself in the dark hallway so he could see into the room while still remaining unnoticed. Hera stood in the center of the mat in a sports bra and boy shorts, and Gianni was taking her clothing measurements. Cato would have stopped to admire her body if he hadn’t been taken aback by the bruises that covered her shoulders and her stomach and her thighs in a patchwork of colors ranging from vivid purples and reds to faded, sickly greens and yellows.

“Then why don’t you tell him you need a break?” Gianni asked.

“And give him the satisfaction? No way.”

“But, Hera…”

“It’s ok, Gianni. Everybody’s got their normal. This is mine. You get used to it, and after a while it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just blue on black.”

“If he knew he’d stop being so hard on you.”

She barked out a laugh. “No he wouldn’t! This is _Cato_ we’re talking about. He’d probably just laugh and punch me even harder.”

“I really think I should say something to him.”

“Do _not_ say a word to him.” Hera said fiercely. “Do you understand me?”

“But—“

“Let it go Gianni.”

The stylist gave her a long, searching look. “Ok,” he relented. “I will. But the way he talks to you on top of it. The awful things he says.”

She grinned, but her eyes looked worn out. “Blue on black,” she said softly.

Cato couldn’t stand to hear anymore, so he turned and left the complex as silently as he had entered it.

xxxxxxxxxx

Gianni kept his word for the most part, but he did tell Cato to lay off for the sake of vanity.

“The Sponsor Gala is in a week,” he said. “Hera’s dress shows her arms and shoulders and part of her stomach. She’s got a couple bruises, and I gave her some cream for them so they’ll heal by then, but in the meantime, go easy on those areas, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.” Cato said with feigned offhandedness. “I’m taking a break from training her for a few days anyway. Things have been getting a little...heated...between us lately.”

xxxxxxxxxx

The idea was not to let anyone know about her knives or her climbing, although Hera wasn’t quite sure what the point of the facade was, since she was certain Cato had told the District 2 Tributes about all of it anyway, but she didn’t feel like arguing with him, so she followed the game plan he laid out for her on the day of her scoring session.

She shot some arrows and she threw a couple of spears, and she sort of kind of hit the targets sometimes, but never fatally. Then she pretended to struggle on the climbing wall, taking a full three minutes to make it to the top before making sure to almost fall on her way back down.

She didn’t even look at the knives, and no one was surprised when she scored a five.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day, she was practicing her knife throwing when Johanna Mason walked in.

“Holy shit that’s impressive,” were the victor’s first words as Hera sunk a knife into the left eye of a hologram. Her voice was filled with wonder.

“Thanks.” Hera was a little awe-struck herself at meeting her district’s only living Victor.

“Did _Cato_ teach you that?”

“No, I taught myself.”

“Wait....you only got a 5 in your scoring session.”

“Yeah, I’m not supposed to let on what I can do.”

Johanna grinned. “You pulling a Johanna Mason? They’re gonna start expecting it from all of us 7 girls soon, and then it won’t work anymore.”

Hera smiled back at her and held out her hand. "I’m Hera, by the way.”

“Oh please, cut the bullshit.” She swatted Hera’s hand away dismissively, but her tone was friendly. “I know who you are are. That was really brave what you did, by the way. Volunteering to take that little girl’s place. Suicidal. But brave.” Hera didn’t know what to say to that, so she just shrugged. “Has Cato been being a dick to you?”

“Yeah.”

Johanna rolled her eyes. “I figured. So listen, I’ve been trying with the two from 10. I really have. But they’re not gonna make it far. If they die before you do, which is very likely, I’ll come relieve Cato. That way you’ll have someone looking out for you who actually wants you to make it outta there. Julian too. I’ll divide my time. Although from the looks of it, you and your knives are gonna outlast him.” Johanna studied her thoughtfully. “You didn’t let him stick it in you did you?”

“Julian?!” Hera was horrified. “He’s fourteen!”

Johanna rolled her eyes. “No, not Julian you turd. Cato.”

“Wha--no!”

“You’ve got some serious willpower then,” the Victor said, and she sounded impressed. “I don’t know if _I_ could sleep next door to him for two and a half months and not give in.”

Hera gave her a disbelieving look. “He’s an awful human being.”

“Yeah, but he’s hot. And he’s hung like a horse.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“I see we have our fuck me pumps on,” were the first words out of Cato’s mouth when she walked into the living room five minutes before it was time to leave for the Sponsor Gala. He had forgotten that he was supposed to be ignoring her.

“Oh aren’t you a funny one,” she snapped at him. “How long have you been sitting out here waiting to say that?”

“Well don’t you look lovely!” Trini interrupted as she emerged from her room. “Turn around, let’s get a look at you.”

Hera spun obediently. Her sleeveless, navy dress was made of a heavy, textured fabric, and had a short, full skirt. Gianni had designed it with a triangular cutout that ran across the front of her waist and tapered off at her ribs. Her hair was pulled up into a messy topknot, but her prep team had purposely left a few wisps out to fall carelessly on either side of her face, and they’d stained her lips with just a hint of red, so that it looked like she’d been eating strawberries. And, of course, she wore the red heels.

“Isn’t she just lovely?” Trini asked Cato.

“Oh god Trini, why did you ask him that?” Hera rolled her eyes. “Now he’s just gonna make some asshole comment.”

Cato decided he wouldn’t have used the word _lovely_. He would have gone with _sexy_. The cutout in her dress exposed the hint of a six-pack beneath her velvety skin, and her lips looked pouty and just-bitten. He liked the wisps of hair around her face; they looked silky. And he thought her legs looked gorgeous in that dress and those shoes, although he thought they’d look even better wrapped around his waist.

But he didn’t say any of that.

“My favorite part is the fuck me pumps,” he said mockingly instead.

“Aaaaand there it is,” Hera said.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hera discreetly studied the Careers as she sat in the holding room where they’d been told to wait until it was time for them to form the receiving line at the Sponsor Gala.

The District 1 girl, Glimmer, was a tall, beautiful, blond with ridiculously long eyelashes and a sparkling smile. Her voice was annoyingly high-pitched and breathy, and Hera could smell her sugary sweet perfume from the other side of the room.

Marvel, also from 1, seemed like a big, lovable goofball, which Hera found incredibly disconcerting considering what she knew of the Careers. He caught her assessing him, and gave her a wink, which made her laugh and roll her eyes.

Clove, from 2, was a small, dark-haired girl no bigger than Hera, with a serious case of resting bitch face. Her specialty was close-range combat with short spears, and she was also highly skilled with the bow and arrow.

And of course, there was Clay. Tall, dark and handsome. Proud as a peacock. He was charming and witty, but Hera could sense the cruelty that lay just behind his devilish grin and his come-hither gaze.

She didn’t think any of the non-Career tributes were particularly noteworthy--except for the pair from 11.

The boy, Thresh, was huge, even bigger than Cato. He had a fierce look in his eye, but he didn’t have the streak of sadism that all of the Careers possessed. And his gaze softened every time it fell on his diminutive District partner.

Her name was Rue, and she was tiny, with dark brown eyes that appeared far-seeing, making her look wise beyond her years. Hera smiled warmly at her. “You look so pretty. And this dress is lovely,” she said, taking a fold of the glittery gold netting that made up the bottom part of it between her fingers.

“I’m nervous,” Rue whispered.

“Don’t be,” Hera said, brushing a wayward curl from her forehead.

“Can I stand next to you in line?” Rue asked shyly. In answer, Hera smiled again and held out her hand.

xxxxxxxxxx

 _Yeah, I’m screwed_ she thought as she glanced at Cato. In theory he was supposed to be charming potential sponsors into donating money to help her out in the arena. In reality he was spending most of his time laughing and joking around with Clay and Alec or flirting with Glimmer. Hera didn’t understand. He’d made this big deal about how she shouldn’t let anyone know about her talent for knife-throwing, but what was the point if he didn’t actually intend to help her get any knives? For someone who supposedly wanted her to make it to the top ten, he sure wasn’t acting like it tonight.

She sighed and took another sip of her champagne. It was the first glass she’d ever had, and she liked how grown up and sophisticated she felt holding the delicate flute in her hand, although she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the taste yet; she had expected it to be a little sweeter.

She had just exchanged her empty glass for a fresh one, when she heard the familiar sound of Cato’s cruel laughter, and turned to see him walking straight towards her. Clay was with him, smirking and raking his eyes up and down her body in a way that made her feel more violated than she’d ever felt in her life.

She felt a combination of dread and fear turn the blood in her veins to slush, but only for a second, and then she got practical. Whatever was about to happen was clearly going to be sexual in nature, and the way she saw it, she had three options. She could either wilt and look pathetic, bristle and look offended, or she could roll with it and turn it right back around on them.

“So! This is the girl who stole Cato away from us every morning,” Clay said smoothly.

“Sorry about that,” she said dryly, and took a sip of her champagne.

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize to me.”

“I wasn’t apologizing to you. _I’m_ the one who’s sorry I got stuck with him.” She eyed her mentor coldly and he reciprocated in kind.

Clay raised his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth turned up.“I can see what you meant by feisty,” he said to Cato, and then turned back to her. “That’s a nice dress you’re wearing, by the way. Looks lovely on you. But I think it would look even better on my bedroom floor.” He stared her down, clearly trying to make her uncomfortable. Cato was snickering, but something about it sounded strained, as though he didn’t really find this amusing at all.

Hera put her head down in what looked like defeat for just a second, and then she took a fold of her skirt in her fingers. When she looked back up it was with narrowed eyes and a soft smile.  “You wanna see this--” she tugged gently on the fabric “--on the floor?”

“Ohhh, yes. I do.”

She stepped forward until she was so close to Clay that she could feel his body heat on her skin, and she stood on tiptoe to speak softly--but loudly enough for Cato to hear--into his ear. “Then come by Marvel’s room tonight after this is all over. Maybe we’ll let you sit in the corner and jerk off while you watch us.” And then she pulled back and gave him a wink. “You,” she said pointedly as she turned to survey Cato’s stunned face, “are not invited.”  And then she turned and walked away. Straight to where Marvel was talking with a potential sponsor. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that; she’d shocked herself. But the champagne had lowered her inhibitions and she was feeling bold.

“I apologize for the interruption,” she cut in when she reached Marvel. She laid her hand lightly on his arm. “But Clay over there was just telling me that between the two of you he thinks he would win in a fist fight, and I was wondering what your opinion on the topic is.”

Marvel looked over his shoulder derisively at Clay and Cato, and then turned back to Hera. “Oh please. I could drop him with one punch. What’s he doing? Trying to impress you?”

“I think so,” Hera said, and took a sip of her champagne. “He says he likes my dress. Do _you_ like my dress?”

He grinned at her and reached over to tug on the fabric of her skirt. _Oh my god this is working out perfectly_. Hera could only imagine what their interaction must look like to Clay and Cato, who were standing out of earshot.  “I do. I especially like this part,” and Marvel brushed the knuckles of his first two fingers over the bare skin of her abdomen. _Of course you do._

And then she felt a hand firmly grip her arm. “I need to talk to you,” Cato growled as he led her away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed once he’d literally backed her into a corner. “You’re not fucking him are you?”

“Seriously? When would I have had the opportunity to? I just met him for the first time tonight.”

“And you’re gonna go back to his place right after this? Someone you’ve met _once_? Someone who’s gonna try to kill you in less than two weeks?”

“God no. I have no intention of sleeping with him. I’m not like _you_. I was just having a little fun with Clay.” Cato let out a rush of air, and he looked relieved. “Wait…” she said. “Why do you care whether I have sex with him or not?” His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “Ohhh...you think he and I might form an alliance and go after your precious Clay.”

“Yes,” he said, and another wave of relief washed over his features. “Yes, that’s why.”

She giggled. “You should have seen the looks on your faces. And Marvel, that idiot, he played right into it.”

She was startled to hear Cato chuckling almost warmly beside her. “What did you say to him?” he asked.

“I just told him that Clay had said he could beat him in a fist fight, which is why he looked over at you guys. And then I asked him if he liked my dress, which is why he touched it.”

“Genius.” Cato chuckled again, and Hera looked up to find him grinning down at her. His eyes, normally hard and cold as steel, were soft and glowing. It made her feel shy all of a sudden so she took another sip of her champagne and looked away to see Glimmer stalking towards them and glaring at her icily.

“Cato,” she cooed as she approached and put her hand on his shoulder. “Clove and I were going over our alliance’s strategy for the Cornucopia and I wanted to get your opinion on a couple of things. I thought maybe we could find somewhere _private_ to talk,” she said, and glared at Hera again.

“Maybe later,” he said dismissively, shrugging her hand off, his eyes still fixed on Hera.

But Hera just laughed and put up a hand in surrender. “I know where I’m not wanted,” she said good naturedly. “He’s all yours.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s a cut on his left side. You’ll see it when you get his shirt off. Ask him how he got it.” Cato looked taken aback, as did Glimmer, and even though she had no reason to like the other girl, she was in such a good mood that she gave her a genuine smile. As she turned to walk away, she caught a glimpse of Cato’s face, and if he’d been any other man, she would have sworn that the look on it was one of disappointment at her departure.

xxxxxxxxxx

Although he didn’t go near Hera for the rest of the evening, Cato was having a hard time keeping his eyes off of her. At the present moment, she was in the far corner of the room, talking with Lila Dunderhaven, the daughter of a high-up Capitol bureaucrat. Cato didn’t know Lila all that well, but her dad had been one of his sponsors and he’d had sex with her a few times before she got married. He was surprised to see that her attitude toward Hera was genuinely friendly since she was usually catty towards other women. But Hera was holding Lila’s six-month-old baby boy on her hip, fawning over him with delight and Lila appeared to be chattering away to her.

The baby was just as enamored with Hera as she was with him. He cooed contentedly and nuzzled into her neck as he splayed one hand on her breast and twined the fingers of his other around one of her loose strands of hair. His chubby little leg was pressed up against her exposed midriff.

Cato was mesmerized by the sight. Hera was glowing, she was absolutely radiant. Everything else in the room disappeared from his view and the sounds of glasses clinking and people laughing grew muffled and quiet as his entire consciousness became consumed with her. He felt as though he were watching Hera in her natural element, as she was meant to be.

She handed the little guy back to his momma, and Cato was astounded when Lila leaned in to give his tribute a hug and whisper something to her. The two of them grinned at one another, and then Hera kissed Lila on the cheek before they parted ways.

 _What the hell?_ Cato wondered, but he didn’t have time to puzzle over the interaction anymore, because Glimmer had found him again. “There you are,” she purred, taking hold of the lapel of his suit jacket, and just like that the spell he’d been under was broken.

xxxxxxxxxx

Glimmer smelled sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Her lip gloss was getting everywhere. And Cato was disappointed to discover that her boobs were fake. _Does anyone have real tits anymore?_ he asked himself.

This was not nearly as fun as he had thought it would be. Mostly he was just annoyed.

He knew what he had to do if he wanted to finish.

She screeched like a banshee and swiped at him with her long manicured nails when Hera’s name fell from his lips as he came, and he fled from the room in nothing but his boxers to avoid having his eyes clawed out.

“Hey Seeder,” he called out to the District 11 Victor who’d been assigned to 1 for the Quarter Quell before he slipped out into the hallway.

“Nice seeing you Cato,” she called after him, her voice laced with amusement.

When he entered the District 7 apartment they all looked up to see him standing there in his underwear, his hair mussed, bloody scratches all down his chest and shoulders.

Hera had just taken a gulp of cream soda and she laughed so hard it came out her nose at the sight of him. Gianni was rolling on the floor with mirth, holding his sides, and even Trini was having a hard time keeping her composure. She snorted a few times from the effort to restrain herself before finally giving in and erupting into giggles.

Cato glared at them. “Laugh it up you assholes,” he called as he stalked toward his bedroom. But the second he reached the cover of the hallway he leaned up against the wall and closed his eyes, smiling and shaking his head at how Hera’s eyes had sparkled and danced with merriment just before she shot her drink out of her nostrils.

They were still cackling away in the other room. “My kidneys hurt!” Hera was exclaiming as she tried to catch her breath. “And my nose burns!”

Cato couldn’t help it. He thumped his head against the wall and covered his mouth with his hands to stifle the laughter that was rising up from deep inside of him. And then he stopped in his tracks. _I’m happy_ he realized. _Right now. In this moment. I’m happy_. He couldn’t remember the last time it had happened to him.

xxxxxxxxxx

She began to have nightmares after the Sponsor Gala. Every night. The same one over and over and over.

Clay would punch her in the face and laugh at her. He’d back off of her and she’d stand up. She would open her mouth as her teeth fell out into her hand. After she threw them to the ground, she would lunge at Clay, knocking him down and straddling him, driving her fist into his face repeatedly. But still he laughed and she couldn’t stand the way he was looking at her. So every night she reached down to her waist and pulled her knife from its sheath, and she stabbed his eyes out.

She would wake in a cold sweat, temporarily paralyzed with horror. _It was just a dream, it was just a dream. It wasn’t real_. Of course it was just a dream. She’d felt nothing, felt no pain as he punched her or as her teeth fell from her mouth. The blood that she’d spit out had no taste, no warmth. And though she’d been able to tell that Clay was laughing by the shape of his mouth and the narrowing of his eyes, she’d heard nothing but a soft, consistent whoosh, like the wind that had swept across her face as her chariot raced past the onlookers at the Tribute Parade. _You’re ok. It was just a dream._

But she felt sick at the thought of another person’s blood on her hands, even someone as sadistic as Clay, and she prayed that Cato had been wrong the day he’d speculated that she would turn out to be a hypocrite.


	8. Serious Daddy Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is a pretty dark chapter. There will be bullying and some serious suicidal ideation.
> 
> And it's pronounced "Hair-Bear." You'll understand what I mean when you get to it.

They had interviewed the loved ones of all of the tributes back in their home districts, and they’d been airing the footage over the past week or so. The evening after the Sponsor Gala, they showed the interviews from 7.

They didn’t talk to any family members of Hera’s. Cato briefly remembered overhearing that her mother had died when she was younger, but now that he thought about it, she’d never mentioned any siblings or her father, and he’d certainly never bothered to ask her about her personal life. If she’d had siblings, she would have mentioned them, so she must be an only child, but... _what was the deal with her father?_

They interviewed her best friend, Uma, first, and then the three older Callahan children. It was clear that they all adored her and missed her and wanted her to come home to them. None of which was particularly earth-shattering.

And then they interviewed the children’s father, and Cato found himself glued to the screen.

His name was Dean, and he looked to be about 30 years old. Cato had to admit that, from an objective standpoint, he was a good-looking guy. Tall. Strong. Lean. Handsome face.

He was a logger, Cato learned. He was quiet, reserved, polite, respectful.

And when he spoke about Hera, it as if he were a priest speaking about his deity.

Cato glanced over to the armchair where Hera was sitting to find her watching the screen intently, her eyes wide, her hands covering her mouth.

A jumble of thoughts ( _I’m taller than him I’m bigger than him I’m stronger I’m better looking I have more money he’s just a logger I’m a fucking Victor I could wreck him she can’t want him over me she’s an idiot if she does I could provide for her better than he could I could buy her whatever she wanted I could take care of her I could protect her why is she looking at him like that? I’m better right? right? right?_ ) spiraled through the most primitive part of Cato’s brain so rapidly that he wasn’t even aware of their existence and they plummeted into his stomach to putrefy into a black lump of bitter poison before making themselves over and emerging into his consciousness as _This guy’s fucking annoying and I wanna punch him in his face._

He said it aloud. “This guy’s fucking annoying. I wanna punch him in his face.”

“Shhh,” Gianni hissed. “We’re trying to watch this.”

“Last question,“ the reporter said. “A little birdie told us that you were planning to propose to her the afternoon of the reaping. Can you comment on that?”

“I…she’s...” The logger, taken aback by the question, looked down at his hands in his lap, his palms rough with callouses, his cuticles stained with dirt. “She’s become the mother of my children. She’s become...I mean...it was her last reaping….Yes.” He nodded and closed his eyes. “Yes. I was gonna ask her to marry me.”

“Oh my god,” Hera groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t believe he said that on national television.”

Trini and Gianni erupted into squeals and gasps, assaulting her with exclamations and questions.“Hera! You little brat, you never mentioned him before!” “Why didn’t you tell us about him?”

Hera was blushing. “I...I don’t know. We weren’t like...you know...a couple or anything, and I just...”

“Well ok, but did you know he was interested in you? Did he ever like kiss you or anything?”

Hera’s blush deepened and she smiled shyly. “Uhhh, yeah. He did.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s very sweet.”

“So, wait, are there other guys you’ve never told us about?”

“No, no, he’s the first.”

“Oooo he’s gorgeous!” “Did you know he was gonna propose?”

“I had an idea. Uma said something to me about it, so I think he told her he was planning on it.”

“What were you gonna say?”

More blushing, more smiling. “Uhhh, I had pretty much decided to say yes.”

Trini squealed with delight. “Ohhhh I hope you win. You two would make beautiful babies!”

“Look at our little Hera!” Gianni teased affectionately. “Blushing and in love!”

Hera’s eyes widened. “Oh--I don’t…I’m not--” But she stopped herself.

It was disgusting, and Cato couldn’t take it anymore. “Ohhh my god all of this _squealing_. I wanna stab myself in the eardrums. It doesn’t fucking matter anyway. She’s just--”

“--a dead girl walking?” Hera finished for him.

“Exactly,” he said, and went to his room to shower.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was late and she was sitting at the dining room table, snacking on cookies and milk and reading when Cato came out of his room. He plopped down at the table across from her and stared at her.

She looked up at him, about to ask him what the fuck his problem was, but the energy radiating off of him stopped her. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was off. Something about his demeanor and the look in his eyes, which were darker than she’d ever seen them before, was making her nervous.

“So I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Your mother died, I know. But you’ve never mentioned your father. And this Dean guy, he’s a little old for you. You don’t seem to love him--I caught that little slip of the tongue there when Gianni was teasing you about being in love. And yet you were gonna say yes if he asked you to marry him. Now from what you said, it sounds like he’s the first guy to pay attention to you.” He paused and looked at her meaningfully.

“Ok...what are you trying to get at?”

He shrugged “Just looks to me like somebody might have some serious daddy issues.”

She didn’t catch herself in time. Her body tensed and her eyes widened.

“Oh-ho!” he laughed and his eyes were shining with a sadistic glaze. “Struck a nerve did I? Now I’m curious.” He slid his chair around the table, right next to hers, and his knees brushed the side of her thigh. “Is he a drinker?” he taunted, putting his face right next to hers. “Is that it? Or a womanizer? Did he neglect you? Or did he realize you were a waste of time and abandon you? Or...was it something else... ”

She stood up abruptly to leave, but he caught her arm and jerked her roughly back down into her chair.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going? We’re having a conversation here. I’m trying to get to know you better.”

“Fuck off,” she spat and leapt from the chair again. But he was too quick for her and he shot out of his seat too, catching her by the waist and tossing her into the corner of the dining room.

She tried to duck under his arm, but he grabbed her by the hair. “Noooope,” he said, pushing her into the corner again and blocking her exit.

On any other day, she would have fought back, knife or no knife, but something told her that, even though he seemed in control of his tone of voice and his movements, he’d been possessed by something evil and methodical and calculating, and she had never been more afraid of someone in her life than she was at this moment.

She lowered her eyes and clenched her jaw, hoping he’d get bored with his game and leave her alone, but he showed no sign of giving up.

“Awww come on. Here I am taking an interest in you and you’re being rude. I just want an answer to my question. Is that too much to ask for? Hmm?” He pushed the side of her head into the wall. Not at all hard, almost gently in fact, but it wasn’t meant to hurt her, she knew that. It was meant to degrade her. “After all the time I’ve invested in you.” He pushed it again. “I’ll let you go as soon as you tell me.” She squeezed her eyes shut. _I’m not here. I’m not here. This isn’t happening._

“Herrrrrraaaaa,” he coaxed. He pushed her head into the wall a third time. “Come on Hera.” _Push._ “Tell me” _push_ “what he did” _push_ “that was so bad” _push_ “and I’ll let you go.” _Push_.

She put her hands on her head and tried to curl in on herself. She was beginning to panic and tears were starting to form beneath her eyelids. She had never told anyone about her father’s abuse. She’d let Gianni see her scars, but she’d never told him how she’d gotten them, and even though he’d probably figured it out, he’d never asked her to explain. He’d understood that she was too proud to talk about it.

But Cato was pulling her hands away from her head, leaving her face exposed as a single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. She lowered her chin to her chest and tried to crouch down, but he was laughing now, pulling up on her wrists and he was too strong for her. He transferred both of her wrists to one of his hands, and with his other he forced her chin off of her chest. “Herrrrraaa.” _Push_. Then he let go of her chin and a second later she flinched as something cold and wet hit her face. Her milk. He was dipping his fingers in her glass of milk and flicking it at her. “Come on Hera.” _Flick_.

She couldn’t handle it anymore. He’d won. She let out a single sob and spun around to face the wall, yanking her shirt up to expose her scars.

She heard him gasp, and though she couldn’t see him, she sensed an immediate shift in his body language, as though the sight of the scars had released whatever it was that had possessed him. Still, she stood, motionless, tears streaming down her face for five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen. Then she pulled her shirt back down her body and pressed her face into the wall, sliding down into a crouch and wrapping her arms around herself.

“Oh my god,” she heard him whisper and then she heard him turn and walk away, heard his bedroom door close. She curled up on the floor and silently wept.

xxxxxxxxxx

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Training Center, a rope in his hand, tying a noose and untying it, and then tying and untying it again, over and over in the dark.

_I’m a monster. I’m a monster. I’m a fucking monster._

He looked up at the thick curtain rod that spanned the wall of windows. It was solidly anchored into the wall and he knew it would hold his weight. He pushed his nightstand beneath it and he climbed on top of it. Then he tied one end of the rope around the rod and he slipped the noose around his neck. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, and behind his eyelids he saw her. He saw her shining like the sun and holding Lila’s baby. He saw her laughing so hard that cream soda came out of her nose. He saw her bare back and shoulder blades, covered in scars. Dozens of them, a shade lighter than the rest of her and feathering across her skin in narrow, delicate ridges. He saw her crouching down in the corner of the dining room, humiliated and defeated. And he almost stepped off of the nightstand.

But he didn’t.

This time he understood what it was that kept him from hanging himself. She might hate him--and justifiably so--but he had to see her through this. He had to try to save her.

 _After the games_ he said to himself. _After the games._

 

xxxxxxxx

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d told anyone he was sorry for anything. He was pretty sure his mouth had forgotten how to form the words. So he tried to show her the only way he knew how. He found her at the climbing wall the next day and when she spun on her heel to try to leave he took her by the shoulders, gently but firmly, and turned her around to face him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Hit me,” he whispered.

He let himself fall to the ground when she shoved him in the chest. He didn’t stop her when she straddled his stomach. And he didn’t lift his arms from the mat as she struck him in the face with her closed fists again and again, even when he felt blood trickle down his face, even when he tasted it on his tongue.

When he stopped her it wasn’t for his own sake. It was for hers. He wrapped her in a bear hug and pinned her arms to her sides and her head to his chest. “Calm down,” he whispered into her hair as she lay on top of him, writhing and screaming. “You’ll break your hands. You’ll break your hands and then you won’t be able to throw a knife.”

Eventually her rage petered out and she went limp, but the tears continued to stream from her eyes.

“I hate you,” she whispered in between hiccups.

“I know,” he replied as he stared at the ceiling. _I hate me too._

xxxxxxxx

“What the hell happened to your face?!” Gianni exclaimed when Cato walked into the apartment.

“I felt like being her punching bag today.”

xxxxxxxx

Gianni found her in the sparring room. “What happened?” he asked with a sharp intake of breath when he saw the state of her knuckles.

“He’s a fucking monster, that’s what happened.”

“Hera. Tell me.”

So she did.

He sighed. “Look, I’m not gonna defend him. I’m not gonna tell you that he didn’t deserve it because even he realizes that he did. But...how much do you know about the training the District 2 tributes go through?”

Hera shrugged. She didn’t feel like talking.

Gianni sighed again and settled down next to her.

“All kids in 2 are genetically tested when they’re five and a half years old. It’s mandatory. If they test in the top five percent they automatically go to the Academy when they’re six.”

“Cato was small for his age when he was tested. But his genes came out in the 99th percentile. They were able to determine he’d be over 6’2” by the time he was 17 and prone to building muscle easily. And that he’d be quick and strong and agile. They did aptitude tests too and they could see that he’d be smart, especially when it came to strategy...he’d fight with his head.”

“His dad left him and his mom when he was five. Just before he was tested. I’m not entirely sure why. But I know he was close to his mom when he was little. He didn’t want to leave her and go to the Academy. But they made him.”

“He was the runt of his class. His legs were short and he’d come in last whenever they had races. His reach was small so he didn’t do well in hand-to-hand or swords. He was ok at long-range weapons, but that’s not what the boys are glorified for there. It’s all about swords and fists with them, and he wasn’t good with either of those at first.”

“There’s a sort of…sanctioned...hazing....there. The instructors basically look the other way when it comes to bullying. They think it toughens the kids up to go through it. And traditionally...when you come in last in a race or in a boxing tournament...they all gang up on you. Beat you. Call you names. Steal your food. And for the first few years Cato usually came in last.”

“On top of it he was poor, at least for District 2 standards. He was from the lower-class section. And they all knew it. So he was bullied about that too.”

“He started to train himself during the evenings after dinner. And he started to grow faster than most of the other boys. Taller. He put on more muscle. He started to win his sword fights and his boxing matches. And the instructors started to praise him. They could see his potential. He was solidly at the top of his class by the time he was twelve years old and he never went back down in rankings. He worked his ass off, and the instructors basically started grooming him to become the tribute for the 71st games.”

“And someone else began coming in last. Someone who had done the reverse of what he had. Whose growth had slowed down and who had gradually dropped in ranking until he was at the bottom. Someone who had picked on him mercilessly. So he got revenge. He was….well I won’t give you any examples, but it was awful, what Cato did to him.”

“And they respected him for it. His instructors. His peers looked up to him and treated him like a leader. Brutus was so impressed with him that he took him under his wing, started to spend extra time training him. He became his father figure.”

“Cato’s mother was allowed to come visit twice a year. At first he was so excited to see her. But the other kids made fun of him and called him a mama’s boy. So he was embarrassed, and he started to distance himself from her. By the time he was ten, he was torn and it made for some pretty strange visits. He’d treat her with contempt for most of it, but then at the end he’d promise her he’d win for her, so he could support her the way his father hadn’t. But she could see how cold and violent he was becoming, and she disapproved, even though the rest of the district valued those traits. And he could sense it. So their visits became more and more awkward. And when he was fifteen, she just stopped coming and Brutus was left as his only parental figure.”

“He wanted the money. To chase away his memories of poverty. He wanted the fame and recognition because he thought it would erase the torment he went through at the hands of his peers for his first three years there. It was all that mattered to him. Fame and money. And then he got it. And not only did it not fill the void in him, it made it worse. But it’s all he knows. That system. So he stays in line with it. Because what will he have if he doesn’t? Nothing. No family. No friends who love him simply for himself and not as a Victor.”

“And that is the Cato you know today.”

Hera was stunned. “Did he tell you all that?”

“No. He’s never told me any of it. But I’ve pieced it together over the years. From things I’ve heard Brutus and some of the other mentors say. And from general knowledge about the way things work at the Academy.”

“About his dad...you said you don’t know the details.”

“No, not for sure. I do know that he wasn’t planned. That his father didn’t really want him but he married his mother after she found out she was pregnant. There are rumors that he was an alcoholic and that he cheated on her. And that he didn’t really pay any attention to Cato. And then he just left one day.”

“And his mom? Does he see her ever?”

“No. Right after he won, when he returned to 2 he went to his childhood home to see her. But someone else lived there and from what I heard the rest of the neighborhood had turned over as well, and no one had any idea where she’d gone. A couple weeks later I went to 2 to help get ready for his Victory Tour. And we were at his mansion, his new one, and a servant came to tell him that there was someone at the door for him. A relative. And his eyes lit up. I saw it. It was a side of him I’d never seen…it was so strange. He looked like a little kid. And when I look back, I realize he was hoping it was his mother. But it wasn’t. It was his father, coming to ‘reestablish’ his relationship with his long-lost son,” he said, his voice dripping with disgust. “He just wanted money.” He let out a short laugh. “Cato put him in the hospital.”

“So no one knows where his mother is? Do you think she’s dead?”

“No. Brutus asked around and found out what happened to her. She lives here.”

“ _Here_? In the Capitol?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then why hasn’t he seen her?”

“Because he doesn’t know. Brutus didn’t tell him.”

“Why not?!”

“What good would it do? She’d probably refuse to see him. It would just upset him.”

“Still...he has a right to know.”

“You can’t say anything Hera. Brutus will kill me—well not literally—but he’ll be pissed if he finds out I told you. And you owe me. I didn’t tell Cato about your bruises.”

Hera sighed. “Fine.”

When Gianni left, Hera closed her eyes and rested her chin on her knees. She understood now. What Cato had said as he goaded her the night before. It wasn’t about her at all. It was about him. And she thought about Reese. Sweet little 7-year-old Reese. What if he’d been thrown into the same situation Cato had been at that age? Would she hate him for fighting with everything he had to stop the bullying?

_No. I wouldn’t. And I don’t hate Cato for it either._

xxxxxxxxxx

She woke up that night to a thump in the living room.

When she went to investigate she found Cato face-down on the floor giggling--she didn’t even realize he was capable of giggling.

He had tripped over the rug.

“Cato,” she said, pulling on his shoulder. He reeked of alcohol.

She pushed at him until he rolled over onto his side, gasping at the sight of his face, which was cut and bruised. She felt horrible.

But it didn’t seem to bother him.

“Her-Bear!” he cried with drunken delight, grinning up at her like a little boy.

“Ssshh you idiot!” she hissed. _Her-Bear? What the fuck?_ “You’ll wake up Trini.”

He giggled again but stopped abruptly with a hiccup.

“Jesus christ you’re shit-faced. How much have you had to drink?”

“Mmmm thissmany,” he said, holding up both of his hands and spreading his fingers. _Hiccup._

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

 _Hiccup_. “Your bed?”

“Uh, no. Your bed.”

“Mmm, nah I’ma sleep in your bed Her-Bear.”

“Who the fuck is Her-Bear?”

“You’re Her-Bear, Her-Bear.” _Hiccup._

“Ooookay, that’s enough of that. Come on. Get up.”

“Yesss let’s geddup,” he said, obeying her as she pulled him to his feet and steered him towards his room.

“Her-Bear,” he said sternly when she’d gotten him through the door. “This- _hiccup_ \- isn’t your room.”

“You’re right. It’s not,” she said pushing him to sit on his bed. “It’s yours.”

“I’ma sleep in your bed.”

“No. You’re not.”

“Yes- _hiccup_ -I am.”

“Why? Why do you want to sleep in my bed? It’s exactly the same as yours. Same sheets. Same mattress.”

“But there’s a Her-Bear in your bed.” _Hiccup_ “There isn’t one in mine ‘n I want one.” _Hiccup_.

Hera only had a millisecond to ponder that last statement because all of a sudden the expression on his face changed. She knew that look. It was the one that signaled she had about ten seconds if she was lucky before he vomited. She raced into the bathroom and snatched the garbage can. She made it just in time before he emptied the contents of his stomach into it with three big retches.

“Gross,” she sighed to herself as he continued to dry heave into the can. When he stopped she cleaned off his face with a wet rag and pushed him onto his side without even bothering to take his shoes off. He closed his eyes immediately and she sat on the floor for a few minutes until she heard his breath even out.

She was almost out the door when he spoke. “C’mere.”

 _Oh god_. “What?” she said as she turned around.

“C’mere.”

She sighed impatiently and went to stand beside the bed. “C’mere,” he said again. He was staring up at her  

with glassy eyes.

“I’m here.”

“Hmm-mmh, c’mere,” he patted the mattress beside him.

She sighed again and sat, and he put his hand on her thigh.

“Listen.”

Silence.

“Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“Listen. I gottell you something. R’you lis’ning?”

“Yes.”

“Listen.”

“Oh my god you’re so drunk,” she groaned, closing her eyes in frustration. She put the back of her hand to his forehead and then to his cheek, relieved to find that his skin wasn’t clammy.

When she opened her lids, he was staring at her, his eyes shining, partly with intoxication, but with something else, something like the look he’d given her at the Sponsor Gala before Glimmer had interrupted them.

He reached up and took her hand from his cheek, interlacing it with his. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

“I know Cato. It’s ok. Just go to sleep.”

“D’you hate me?”

“No.”

“I would ‘f I were you.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Your fingers,” he sighed.

“What?”

“Your fingers. That first day when I started training you ‘n you asked me if I had lil things I loved ‘n I said I didn’t but I do. I love your fingers.”

She started to pull away from his hold, but he caught her and caressed the bones just above the back of her hand. “And your wrists. They’re sssossmall,” he said, wrapping his fingers all the way around the one he held. “See?”

She wrenched out of his grasp, and he reached up to twine his fingers through her tangles. “Your hair.” _This isn’t happening. There’s no way this is happening._ He giggled as he realized his hand was stuck, but Hera’s breath had caught in her throat and she shook as she helped him free himself.

When she let go of his hand he put it to her cheek, and ran his thumb across her bottom lip just once before she fell into all-out panic. “Your face,” he breathed as she stood up and backed out of his reach.

“You’re delirious,” she whispered. Her heart was pounding so hard it actually hurt.

He smiled up at her like she was an angel. “Your voice. Your eyes. Your smell. Just...you. You. You. You.”

“You have no idea what’s going on right now, do you?” she asked him. “Do you even know where you are? Or who I am?”

He gave her that smile again, the one that made him look like a child. “You’re Hera,” he whispered. “And I love you.”

She turned and fled from the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Oh my god I’m never drinking again,” he groaned as he stumbled into the dining room.

“Rough night, huh?” Gianni asked him. “What time did you get home?”

“I have no idea. I just know we started doing shots at dinner and I don’t remember anything after that.”

 _Oh thank god_ Hera thought.

 


	9. Bet My Life

“I’m really grateful for everything you’ve taught me,” she said to him that evening, when his hangover had worn off. “But I think I’ve learned everything I can from you. I don’t think we should spend any more time training. It’s not good for either of us. We’re poison together.”

 _No. We aren’t poison. I’m poison._ But he fixed his eyes on the space over her shoulder and he nodded. “Yeah, ok.”

“And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

He shifted his gaze to her face. “About what?”

“What I did to you yesterday.”

He shrugged it off. “I told you to do it.”

“Still…” she said as she stood up from the table. “I’m sorry.” And then she left.

 _Sociopath_ they’d called him. The people from the other districts. He’d heard them murmur it on his victory tour. _Heartless_ they’d said. And he had believed them.

But now he knew they were wrong. Because how could he feel like the mass that sat heavy in his chest, just left of center, was being steadily drawn and quartered if he didn’t have a heart?

xxxxxxxxxx

“You’re spending all of your time down here now,” Clay observed. “Not training that little bitch anymore?”

Cato sneered. “No point. She’s worthless. Still, though, wait to kill her, alright? Until you have to. For my mentoring stats.”

“Of course.” Clay was nothing if not loyal to his District and its Victors.

xxxxxxxxxx

She liked her interview dress. It was made out of a rich, dark red velvet. _Oxblood_ , Gianni had called the color. It was short, only coming to mid-thigh, and sleeveless with a full skirt. It was overlaid with lace just a shade lighter. They had piled her hair on top of her head loosely, as usual, and made her skin tan, so her legs and arms looked long and lean, and her shins and shoulders reflected the light. A single gold bangle gleamed richly in the light on her forearm. She wore delicate gold stilettos that showed off perfectly pedicured toes, and lipstick that matched her dress. She had been skeptical about it when she saw it in the tube, but once applied, it made her eyes look vivid and crystalline.

When Cato saw her he didn’t make any comments about her shoes or about her looking like a dog in clothes.

Instead, he looked up at her, just once, from where he sat on the couch, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees, and his hands clasped. Then he dropped his gaze down to examine his cuticles.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“I think so. I’m nervous.”

He nodded without looking up. “You’ll be fine.”

They had only spoken once since she’d told him she no longer wanted to train under him, and it had been to prepare for her interview. They had been respectful but reserved toward each other. In fact, she had never seen him so subdued. As though he’d had all of the wind taken out of him.

It was disconcerting, even though she was relieved that it meant he was done making what was left of her life hell. She had the feeling that the night he had forced her to acknowledge her father’s abuse had been a kind of death throe for some part of him. But she didn’t understand what it was that had died.

She didn’t understand that he was drowning in her, and that it had been one final, desperate attempt to keep his head above water.

He had utterly failed.

xxxxxxxxxx

They had decided to go for the “unremarkable” angle for her interview. It was really the only one that made any sense considering she was supposed to hide her talents.

“Caesar will ask you about why you volunteered and what it’s like to be mentored by me, and before you know it your three minutes will be up,” he had told her, and after she finished the interview, she had to admit his prediction was spot-on.

There was only one question Cato hadn’t prepared her for. Caesar asked her if she had found her mentor to be as attractive as all of the other women in Panem did. Luckily, Hera had anticipated this. She had an answer prepared.

“Why do you think I only scored a 5? I was so busy staring at him I didn’t retain anything he taught me,” she said. The crowd roared with laughter.

xxxxxxxxxx

“I’m not going back with you,” he said to Gianni when the interviews were over. “I’m going out.”

Gianni looked incredulous. “You’re not serious. The night before the games?”

“I have some business to transact. And she doesn’t want me there anyway.”

xxxxxxxxxx

She thought about Cato.

She thought about the softness in his eyes when he’d smiled down on her at the Sponsor Gala.

She thought about how innocent and vulnerable he looked whenever he fought off his demons in his sleep.

She imagined the way his eyes must have lit up when he’d thought his mother had come back to him after he won his games, and the way his face must have fallen when he realized it wasn’t her at the door.

She remembered the humility with which he’d bowed his head when he told her to hit him.

She wondered what he would have been like, who he would have become, if he’d never been forced into the Academy.

He had done monstrous things, but he wasn’t a monster.

He was lost.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato arrived at Anthony Waterford’s mansion just after ten o’clock. Anthony had been his biggest sponsor when he’d entered the arena, and every year he threw a fantastic party on the eve of the games. Cato had never gone, because it was generally considered poor form for a mentor to go out drinking the night before.

“Cato!” Anthony called when he entered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you about my tribute.”

“That pretty little thing from 7?”

“Yeah.

“What about her?”

“I think she can win this.”

Anthony gave him a skeptical look. “Cato. She got a 5.”

“Well I happen to know something the gamemakers don’t.”

Now Anthony was intrigued. “Oooo, do tell.”

Cato laughed. “I will. Tomorrow. Right after the hovercraft lifts off to take the tributes to the arena. I’ll text you. Keep an eye out for it.”

“Why won’t you tell me tonight? And why didn’t you say anything at the gala last week?”

“Because I can’t risk anyone telling the other mentors or the other tributes her secret. Just look for my text. And have your money ready.”

And he moved on to have the exact same conversation with one of Anthony’s guests, another person who had donated to him during the 71st games. And then he moved on to another. And another. He didn’t stop until he’d spoken to each and every person there, and by the time he left, the mysterious Hera Greenleaf was all they could talk about, as they speculated on what her big secret could possibly be.

Xxxxxxxxxx

“Promise,” Hera said to Gianni, handing him the envelope. “Promise me you’ll send it as soon as you can.”

Gianni sighed and shook his head. “Ok. I promise.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Hera was already in her room when Cato returned to the apartment, but Gianni was still there.

“Well did you have fun?” Gianni asked sarcastically, glaring at him.

“No. It wasn’t supposed to be fun. I told you. I had business to transact.”

Gianni snorted. “What business could you possibly have had to deal with tonight?”

Cato took out his phone and, after fumbling around for a few seconds, handed it to the stylist. “I was campaigning.”

“Jesus Christ!” Gianni breathed. “Cato. You know they might disown you for this, right? They’ll think you betrayed them.”

Cato shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But I don’t really give a shit if they do.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“Listen to me,” Cato said to her as they stood on the roof, waiting for the Peacekeepers to escort her onto the hovercraft. “Don’t go for anything at the Cornucopia. Even if there’s something right there in front of you. Just turn and run and hide.”

She looked up at him, eyes full of panic and fear. “But then I’ll have nothing. I’m gonna need water and food and...what if there are knives there?”

“No. Don’t.”

“But I don’t have any sponsor money,” she whispered as tears started to blur her eyesight. “How will I--?”

She felt his hands on her shoulders. “I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” he said. “But I’m asking you to anyway.”

“It’s time,” said a Peacekeeper, taking her arm.

“Please,” Cato said, quietly but insistently, his voice shaking. “Trust me.”

When she looked up at him, his eyes were full of fear and they were pleading with hers, and she realized that she did, in fact, trust him. “Ok.” She nodded. “Ok.”

“Ma’am,” said the Peacekeeper.

“Goodbye,” she said softly, her eyes still trained on Cato’s face.

He didn’t say a word, just stared back at her as though he was trying to memorize her face.

And then she was turning and walking away from him. Towards the hovercraft and certain death.

xxxxxxxxxx

He watched her until she boarded the hovercraft. And then he pulled out his phone and he opened to the message he had ready and waiting to be sent to everyone he’d spoken to at the party the evening before.

It was a video that he had shot of Hera one day after she’d been training for just over two months, and he had been pretending that he was ignoring her and playing around on his cell phone. It was short, not even a minute long, and it consisted of two scenes. The first showed Hera squirreling up the climbing wall in less than ten seconds, and then slipping back down just as quickly. The second showed four holographs closing in on her at once. But they didn’t make it very far, because she whipped out one knife after the other in rapid succession and planted them straight into the left eye of each glowing figure.

In the text box beneath the video he’d typed one sentence: _I’d bet my life on her._

The second the hovercraft began its ascent into the air, he pressed _Send_ , and by the time he had settled himself into his seat in the District 7 mentoring room twenty minutes later, she’d set a record for the most sponsorship money ever donated to a single tribute.

xxxxxxxxxx

Gianni had laid out her clothes for the arena, and Hera surveyed them. Black boy shorts, black bra, black socks. Olive green cargo pants, black leather belt. Gray v-neck t-shirt, black hooded windbreaker. Black boots.

“I’m guessing mountains or woods,” he said. “ _Maybe_ desert. But they just did that a couple years ago so…”

She had begun to shake with fear while he helped her dress. He hugged her tightly, trying to soothe her by running his hands up and down her arms.

“Look honey, you can do this. Just ignore the Cornucopia. Run and hide. Lay low.”

The 30 second warning sounded, and Hera started to panic and second guess her trust in Cato’s directive.

“But if I see a knife there…”

“NO!” Gianni said. “Hera, trust me. Trust Cato. Look, I don’t have time explain it but he had a plan all along to help you, and I didn’t even know it until last night.”

The 20 second warning sounded, and Gianni began to help her into the tube.

“It’s a plan to get you sponsors and it’s going to work,” he said. “Just trust him.”

“Why?! He doesn’t care about me! He wants Clay to win! Maybe he’s just saying all this to keep me from getting ahold of a knife!”

“No he’s not! He doesn’t give a shit about Clay anymore!” The 10 second warning sounded. “Or his District! The only thing he cares about is that you live through this!”

“No he doesn’t! What reason could he possibly have to care whether I live or die?”

“Because he’s in love with you! He didn’t realize it at first and he has a fucked up way of showing it, but he’s in love with you!”

But her brain didn’t comprehend Gianni’s words because the tube had begun to close slowly, and then it sealed itself and she was ascending.

50 seconds. The sunlight blinded her, and at first she couldn’t see anything. As her eyes adjusted, she felt a surge of hope. They had been deposited in a clearing surrounded by trees. Trees that looked just like the ones back home in 7.

38 seconds.There was a lake to her right. She didn’t waste her time looking at the Cornucopia, but directly in front of her, about 10 feet away, was a brown backpack. It was practically begging for her to come snatch it up.

31 seconds. Julian was almost directly across from her so she couldn’t read the expression on his face. He seemed to be transfixed on something metal that lay near him. A sword, or maybe a saber, she wasn’t sure.

22 seconds. A few pedestals to her right she saw Rue. The little girl looked like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. Hera caught her eye and jerked her head towards the woods. Run, she mouthed. Rue swallowed and nodded.

14 seconds. The tribute to her right didn’t look like much competition. She could probably take him and get to the bag first. It was worth the risk. But then she looked to her left, and Clay was right next to her, looking at her like a rabid dog.

6 seconds. She looked at the backpack again and then up at the holograph countdown.

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

  



	10. This Isn't Happening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence.

“Well, fuck. There went the last three months of my life,” Johanna said, rolling her eyes. Both of the District 10 tributes had been killed at the bloodbath. She got up and walked out of the room.

 ----------

“You’re dismissed,” Johanna said as she entered the District 7 mentoring room.

But Cato, who was on his phone with someone, just turned to glare at her, with a finger to his lips.

“Oh. It’s nice to see he cares,” she said to Trini sarcastically. “He’s not even paying attention.” She gestured to the screen, which showed Hera sprinting through the forest.

“He’s on the phone with one of the gamemakers,” said Trini, not removing her eyes from the screen. “I’m supposed to tell him if she gets within the vicinity of another tribute.”

Johanna was confused. “What’s he talking to the gamemaker about?”

“He’s placing an order for her.”

“With _what_? He didn’t bother to get her any money.”

Trini pointed to the computer screen on the desk, open to Hera’s sponsorship account. “Yes he did. He was just sneaky about it.”

“HOLY SHIT!” Johanna yelled when she saw the balance.

“Shhhhhhh!” Cato and Trini both hissed at her at the same time.

When he got off the phone, he turned to Johanna. “What do you want?”

“How did you do this?” she asked, pointing to the computer screen.

He showed her the video. “I sent it out to to a bunch of people. This morning. As soon as the hovercraft lifted off. I didn’t want anyone to know what she could do while there was still the slightest chance of it getting back to any of the other tributes.”

“ _Any_ of the other tributes? Don’t Clay and Clove know? Didn’t you tell them?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand. When did you take this?” She pointed to the phone.

“About a month ago.”

“Wait...how long ago did you plan this?”

“...also about a month ago.” He rubbed a hand across his face tiredly. “I’m just relieved it worked. I was worried she either wouldn’t listen to me and she’d run into the bloodbath or that it would turn out I’d been wrong and no one would send money and then she’d be up shit creek without a paddle.”

Johanna was silent for a minute, trying to digest the fact that Cato was actually helping Hera survive.

 _What about his District? What about Clay?_ she wondered. “Cato. You know this means she could win over Clay, right?”

“That’s the general idea,” he said dryly.

“And it’s gonna get leaked to the commentators. They’re gonna show it on national television. What you did for her. Your district will hate you.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“But _why?_ Why don’t you give a shit? Why did you do this?”

But he didn’t answer. He just looked down at the floor.

And then, all of a sudden, Johanna understood.

\----------

Hera hadn’t even been settled into the branches of the tree she’d chosen for ten minutes when she heard it. The delicate chiming sound that signaled the arrival of a sponsor gift.

 _Shit_ she thought to herself. _There’s someone else here. Do they know where I am? Are they looking for me? Is it Clay? Did he follow me here?_ The second she had looked into his eyes as she stood on her plate, she had abandoned any thought she’d given to going for the backpack, and when the clock hit zero, she had turned and sprinted for the forest with a speed borne of sheer terror. She turned back once to see if he was following her, but no, he had leapt right into the thick of the action. And so she had run for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty, before finally choosing a tree and launching herself up into what she had assumed to be a safe haven. But now, someone else was obviously in her immediate vicinity, and she felt another wave of terror wash over her.

But her fear was replaced with surprise a second later when the silver parachute wafted down within a couple feet of her. She reached out and plucked it from the air, surprised at how heavy and large the capsule was.

_This has to be some kind of mistake. The gamemakers screwed up and accidentally sent someone else’s gift to me._

But no, there on the lid, clear as day, was a 7. When she pried it off, she discovered an olive green backpack inside the capsule. And when she unzipped it to examine its contents, she gasped.

Four bottles of water. Dried apricots. Nuts. Crackers. Beef jerky. A rope. Water purification tablets. A paper-thin blanket that looked like it would be useless against the cold.

And a set of six silver throwing knives.

_How the--? What the--? I don’t understand. How did he--?_

She looked into the capsule again, remembering that mentors usually sent a brief note with each gift. But she didn’t see one.

Maybe in the backpack? And there, in the front pocket, was a little slip of paper.

 _What’s it gonna be?_ it said. _Butcher or cattle?_

She sighed and closed her eyes. And then she folded the note up and put it in the pocket of her jacket.

\----------

It was actually boring. But, paradoxically, boring was scary because it meant waiting. Waiting and thinking.

Julian's face appeared in the sky that first night, and Hera felt a little sad. But mostly she felt relieved for him. He was at peace, not suffering, not in pain, and not in fear.

She sat high up in the trees for five full days, and on that first night, she discovered that the blanket in her pack, which she had initially viewed with skepticism, was actually incredibly warm, clearly some kind of advanced technology from 3. And so, even though she couldn’t relax completely, she slept better than she would have thought possible, tied to a branch high up in the air, concealed among the leaves.

She only came down to the forest floor to replenish her water supply at a nearby stream. She’d climb to the very top of one of the taller trees to ensure that no other tributes were within easy range of her, and then she’d slip down to the ground, hurriedly fill up her water bottles, and dart back up into the trees.

Her ass was perpetually numb from sitting in the branches.

She didn’t want to lose her edge from sitting all the time, so she monkeyed around in the branches for at least a few hours a day, playing a game with herself to see how graceful and stealthy she could be. And sometimes, when she was sure she was a safe distance from the other tributes, she would snap little twigs from the branches and pretend they were knives, flicking her wrist to try to hit some spot she chose at random to serve as her target.  

She thought about Rue a lot. She wanted to try to find her, but she knew it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. She hadn’t seen which way they girl had run at the Cornucopia. She only knew that she was still alive.

She shuddered whenever she heard the cannon go off.

At night, she would watch the faces of the dead play across the sky, feeling that, rather than increasing her chances of survival, each fallen tribute brought her closer to danger, closer to open conflict. For Hera, this was the calm before the storm.

A couple of times a day a tribute would pass by, close enough for her to see the top of their head or hear their footsteps. And once, the troop of Careers passed directly beneath her, bantering back and forth with one another, too cocky to worry about anyone hearing them. She felt a stab of fear, but they disappeared from her view within seconds, and after five minutes she couldn’t hear them laughing anymore.

And then, on the evening of the sixth day, after the anthem had played, she ticked off who was left on her fingers. Clay. Clove. Marvel. Glimmer. Rue. Thresh. Hera.

\----------

She heard them just before she saw them. She was getting her daily exercise, climbing around in the branches, and she was only about seven feet off the ground when she heard the sound of two sets of footsteps sprinting over the ground. She froze as Rue came into view, literally running for her life, followed closely by that bitch from 1.

“It’s no use, little rat!” Glimmer called gleefully. “Your time has come. Just lay down and roll over and give in to the inevitable!”

Hera had assumed that the decision to kill someone in the arena would be a difficult one to make. That she would wage an internal battle with herself as the part of her that couldn’t stomach the idea of taking the life of another screamed and raged. But she was wrong. At least when it came to saving Rue.

As though it were a matter of course, an action as natural as breathing or eating or sleeping, she unsheathed one of her knives from the holster on her thigh, and as the the girl from 1 passed beneath her tree, she lodged it into her brainstem.

Glimmer never even knew what hit her.

Rue continued to run for her life, even after the cannon sounded. Hera leapt from her tree and followed after her, but she’d lost sight of the little girl. “Rue!” she called. “Rue, it’s ok! She’s dead!” There was a rustle from a nearby tree, and Rue poked her head out from behind the leaves. “It’s ok. She’s dead. You can come down. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Rue considered her for a moment, and then scrambled to the ground and took a few tentative steps toward her.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise. Do you trust me?” Rue studied her intently for just a few more seconds, and then nodded resolutely.

“Good. Come on, we need to get away from here before the hovercraft arrives and gives our location away.”

She took a good look at Rue. She was in good shape, and she had a backpack of her own, in spite of the fact that she had fled the bloodbath immediately. _You kept your promise_ , Hera mentally said to Lila Dunderhaven. _Thank you_.

The two girls took off at a decent pace, and stopped a couple of miles away when they found a suitable tree to shelter them for the time being.

“How many tributes have you killed so far?” Rue asked her.

“Just her.” Hera was unnerved. Now that the adrenaline and fear for Rue’s safety had worn off, she was trying to dissociate herself from the events of earlier, and the little girl’s question forced her to verbally acknowledge what she’d just done to another human being. She pushed her guilt down. You don’t have time for that right now, she told herself. You have a little girl to look after.

“Really?” Rue looked surprised. “Why did you help me? You could have just stayed up there and she never would have seen you.”

“You’re the same age as the little girl I take care of back in 7.”

“The one you volunteered for?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tara.”

“What’s she like?”

So Hera told her all about the Callahan children, and about Uma.

And then Rue told her about life in 11. About her older brother and her little sister, and her friends at school.

“What about that guy?” Rue asked a while later.

“What guy?”

“Tara’s dad. The one who was going to ask you to marry him?”

Hera felt herself blushing. “Oh...I…”

“He’s handsome,” Rue said, and giggled.

“Yes, he is,” Hera admitted.

“Has he kissed you?”

“Rue!” Hera chided her. “That’s not your business.” But she couldn’t help but smile.

“That means yes,” the little girl giggled.

“Stop!” Hera said laughingly, and ruffled her hand through Rue’s curls.

The sun was starting to set, so they secured themselves in their branches with rope for the night, Rue resting in one just below and to the right of Hera’s perch.

“What do you miss most?” she asked Hera after the anthem had played and Glimmer’s face had faded from the sky.

Hera thought about it for a minute, glad to be distracted from the new wave of guilt the sight of Glimmer’s face had brought on. “Holding Tara’s baby sister Mia. What do you miss most?”

“Peach pie...and my mom singing me lullabies. Did you ever sing to Mia?”

“Yes.”

“Will you sing me to sleep?”

Hera had never sung in public, only to Mia and the other Callahan children, and she dreaded the idea of singing to the entire nation. But she didn’t have the heart to deny Rue this comfort. So she placed her hand on top of Rue’s head and smoothed her springy curls back, closed her eyes, and sang lullabies softly until she heard the little girl’s breath slow itself and even out.

\----------

In the mentoring room, Cato froze. He knew that voice. It was low and soft and sweet and rich like honey.

And he knew those songs. They were the exact same lullabies that had comforted him for the past few months.

He reached out and took hold of Gianni’s sleeve. “Did she know about my nightmares?” he asked, but his eyes stayed on the screen, on Hera’s face.

Gianni gave him a puzzled look. “Yeah. She said they woke her up a couple times a week. Why?”

But he just shook his head and stared at Hera in wonder.

\----------

The three remaining Careers sat at the Cornucopia staring at the sky in astonishment when Glimmer’s face appeared.

When the cannon had gone off earlier that afternoon they’d all grinned at each other. She had gone off hunting by herself, and they figured she’d caught and killed 7 or 11.

“Well, she wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box,” Clove said. “She probably fell off of a cliff or something.”

“Or maybe she ran into some kind of mutt,” Marvel said. “Or there’s always Thresh...but she went west and he’s been hanging out to the east, so it’s unlikely.”

They didn’t even consider the possibility that Hera had killed her.

\----------

The arena was warm and sunny, and they spent the day after Hera killed Glimmer alternating between sleeping and talking.

Rue had gotten a sponsor gift every day, so she had lots of little treats in her backpack. Bread and oranges and little cheeses wrapped in red wax. She’d even gotten soup a couple of times, she told Hera.. “I got a lot of sponsors. My mentor was surprised.” There was a sly look in her eyes, and an affected offhandedness to her voice.

“Who’s your mentor again?” Hera wanted to change to subject.

“Finnick Odair.”

 _Oh, yes. Finnick Odair_. The Capitol women loved him almost as much as they loved Cato. Finnick was the charmer, the smooth talker. A perfect contrast to Cato’s bad boy allure.

“Did he help you?”

“Yeah. He taught me to climb. And hide. He was really worried after the Sponsor Gala that I wouldn’t get a lot of donations. He seemed kinda mad at himself and said he should have tried harder. But then he laughed when he saw my list.” There was that tone again.

 _She really likes to talk about this sponsorship thing, doesn’t she?_ “Did he tell you about the ocean and District 4?”

“Yeah,” Rue said.

“What did he say? I really want to see it some day.” This time she succeeded in changing the subject, and the topic didn’t come up again.

They were eating their dinner when the cannon went off. The two girls looked at each other with wide eyes.

“Who do you think it was?” Rue asked.

“Not sure.” Hera hoped it had signaled Clay’s death, but she had a bad feeling that wasn’t the case.

“I hope it wasn’t Thresh,” Rue said. Hera smiled at her sadly. She thought about trying to reassure the girl that it wasn’t, but that just seemed like a ridiculous thing to do at this point.

They held their breath as they sat next to each other in the branches when the sky turned dark and the anthem played. When Thresh’s face appeared, she heard Rue sniffle next to her. “I’m sorry sweetie,” she whispered as she put her arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

When Rue had cried herself out, Hera told her it was time for them to tie themselves in, and then she sang her companion to sleep. It took her a while tonight.

She sat and looked up at the moon as Rue slept. It was just the two of them and three Careers left. The thought made her shudder with fear. What was she going to do? What should her next move be? Should she keep hiding out or should she attack head-on? She didn’t know if she had it in her to simply cast knives into their eyes as though they were no different than the green holograms back at the Training Center. But what if she waited until they actually threatened her and Rue and something went wrong?

The night grew chilly and she shivered and blew on her fingers to warm them, and then she pulled the blanket up around her chin. She put her hands into her pockets and the fingers of her right hand brushed against the note from Cato. She took it between her thumb and forefinger and rubbed the edges of the paper.

 _Butcher or cattle? Butcher or cattle? Butcher or cattle? What’s it gonna be?_ She didn’t know the answer.

\----------

They ran out of water the next afternoon. A quick canvas of the immediate vicinity to look for a source proved to be unproductive. It was going to start getting dark in a couple of hours, and Hera wanted to make sure their bottles were filled by then. So she decided to go for the sure bet.

“There’s a stream about two miles south and a little to the east of here,” she said to Rue. “Near where you found me.” She briefly considered leaving Rue behind in case she ran into trouble on the way there, but she’d be pushing it timewise, and it might be too dark for her to see before she could make it back to her. The idea of Rue spending the night alone didn’t sit well with her, so she decided to bring her along, cursing herself for not setting out earlier.

They were about halfway there when Rue spoke up out of nowhere. “Look, I know what you did for me. I saw you at that party. Talking to all of those women with babies and little kids. Finnick showed me my list of sponsors the night before they put us in here, and it was all of them. Those women. You got them to sponsor me.”

Hera stopped walking and turned to look at the little girl. She thought about denying it, but what was the point? “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I think you should go home.”

“But what about you?” Rue whispered, and her bottom lip was trembling.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Hera said gently, putting a hand to her cheek. “Ok?” She turned and began walking again.

“You stay back here,” she instructed when they were about a hundred yards from the stream. She didn’t like how open the ground was on its banks, and she knew that the Careers would be scouting out places near water. “I’ll fill the bottles.”

She didn’t see Rue when she returned to the spot where she’d left her. “Rue!” she called softly. “Rue! Where did you go?” She spun in a circle slowly, scanning the area. And then she saw her.

Her body was propped up in a sitting position against the trunk of a nearby tree.

Her head sat upright, eyes open but lifeless, on the ground beside it.

Her outstretched legs were crossed casually, one over the other.

One hand was placed in her lap. The other rested on top of her own curls.

Her killer had made a joke of her death.

Hera dropped to her knees as shock took over her. _I’m not here. I’m not here. This isn’t happening._

The sounds of the forest disappeared and a steady rush of white noise filled her ears. _I’m not here._

She put her hands over her head and buried her face in the ground. _This isn’t happening._

\----------

They set fire to the justice center in District 11. They attacked the Peacekeepers. They hung their mayor, a notorious Capitol loyalist, from the balcony of his mansion. Reinforcements had to be sent in from the Capitol and from District 2. It took them more than 12 hours to restore order.

\----------

In the Capitol, no one would say it aloud in a group of people. But they started to murmur it to their family members as they sat next to them on their couches, to whisper it to their closest friends at their viewing parties.

Maybe this was just a touch over the line.

Maybe the games had become just a bit too cruel.

\----------

Hera didn’t know how much time passed. It could have been five seconds or it could have been an hour. But when she lifted her head, there was Clay, standing not more than ten feet from her, holding his sword and laughing. Or at least she assumed he was laughing, because she still heard nothing but the constant rushing.  But his body was shaking and his chest was heaving and his head was thrown back, his eyes half closed, his mouth wide open.

When he saw her looking at him, he stopped laughing, but his eyes were still merry. His mouth moved, forming words she couldn’t hear, and he tossed his sword to the side before throwing his head back again in glee.

Her shock was replaced by a pure, uncontainable rage, and she leapt to her feet and charged him.

Only to be thrown backwards by his fist in the side of her face. But she felt no pain.

She stood and spit out a mouthful of blood and two teeth. But she tasted no iron.

_Of course. Because I’m not here. This isn’t happening._

His mouth was forming words that, once again, she couldn’t hear, and he lifted his arms wide at his sides. Then he resumed his laughter, with his tongue poking out between his teeth.

She charged him again, and this time she managed to pop him just under his chin with one tight, precise uppercut. It wasn’t all that powerful, but it caught him completely off-guard. His head snapped up, and a small spray of blood shot from his mouth as his teeth severed part of his tongue. Without a thought, she sent a jab straight into his windpipe. The blow made him step backwards, and she lunged forward and shoved him. He fell backwards onto the ground but almost immediately, he sat up, reaching for her leg to try to yank her down to the ground. But she was anticipating it; Cato had taught her that a skilled opponent was more likely to do that so they could jump on top of her and take control than waste their time trying to jump back up to a standing position. So she leapt up and over his arm, and remembered what Cato had taught her to do next.

She landed a solid kick into his left temple with a satisfying thud. _Stupid fucking Clay._

She landed a second one.   _And his stupid-_ -kick-- _fucking-_ -kick-- _head_ \--kick.

He fell to his side, rolling away from her and lifting his arms to shield his head.

So she kicked him in his _stupid_ \--kick-- _fucking_ \--kick-- _kidneys_ \--kick.

He rolled away from her again, this time onto his other side, so that he was facing her, and she kicked him in his face ( _stupid fucking face_ ). In his nose ( _stupid fucking nose_ ). In his teeth ( _stupid fucking teeth_ ). But she couldn’t get a good kick in, because his arms ( _stupid fucking arms_ ) were in the way.

So she dropped to her knees and rolled him onto his back, and she straddled his torso. She peeled his arms, which were starting to grow limp at this point, away from his face. She gripped his hair with her left hand, and with her right she pounded her fist into his mouth and his jaw over and over again.

He was looking at her and his eyes-- _his stupid fucking eyes_ \--reminded her of a puppy dog. A sad puppy dog. Afraid and begging for mercy without a word. It pissed her off. Because he wasn’t a puppy dog. He was a monster. He had no right to look at her like that. She punched him again. First in the left eye. Then in the right.

Movement flashed in the bottom right corner of her peripheral vision, and she turned her head. He was trying to raise his hand from his side, but he was so weak he could only get it a few inches off the ground. He was reaching, she realized, for one of the knives at her thigh. She had completely forgotten about them.

 _An excellent idea_. Now she wouldn’t have to see that stupid look in his eye.

She unsheathed one of the knives and then raised her hand and brought the knife down. First in his left eye. Then in his right.

And then again in his left. And then again in his right. _Leftrightleftrightleftright_.

His blood spattered up in her eye, making it hard for her to see. _Stupid fucking blood_.

She turned her head to wipe her eye on her shoulder and something shiny caught her eye. His sword. His sword in the grass.

She pushed up off of his body and retrieved it, and then she dropped back to her knees beside him and pressed the blade into his neck. His blood spurted up into her eye again. _God, his s_ _tupid fucking blood._

 

The flesh gave way easily. And the veins and arteries. And the trachea and the esophagus. And even the muscles and the tendons. The spine, though-- _stupid fucking spine_ \--was more troublesome. She had to saw back and forth. _Backforthbackforthbackforth_.

But finally, she got all the way through it. She picked his head up by his hair and then she hurled it into the trees as hard as she could.

When she turned back to his body, she saw a funny looking lump in one of his cargo pockets. She leaned down and fished around in it before producing a shiny red apple. Then she made her way over to take a seat at the base of a tree. She polished the apple on her shirt, and gave it a big bite.

“Mmmm,” she said, even though she couldn’t taste it, and relaxed back into the bark to enjoy her snack and watch with interest as the hovercraft appeared to retrieve Clay’s and Rue’s remains.

When she was done, she tossed the core behind her and jammed her hands in her pockets and her fingers closed over her note from Cato. She took it out and reread it.

_What’s it gonna be? Butcher or cattle?_

She giggled, and she felt her mouth form the words. “Butcher, of course.” And then she giggled some more.

This was all just a bad dream. And all she had to do was find the remaining tributes and kill them and then she would wake up in her bed in the Training Center.

But it was almost dark now, and one couldn’t hunt tributes at night. So she folded her note carefully and put  it in her jacket pocket. She pulled one of her knives out of her holster and toyed with it as she sat, cross legged, on the forest floor, and she rocked back and forth and hummed lullabies softly to herself to pass the time until the sun rose again.

\----------

They sat in stunned silence in the District 7 mentoring room, their mouths hanging open.

Hera was covered in blood. Her gray t shirt was stained almost black from the fountain that had shot up out of Clay’s throat when she’d decapitated him. Her hair was matted and wild and sticky. Her teeth as she grinned shone white against the ruby red smudges on her cheeks.

She didn’t seem to notice that when she attempted to polish her apple on her shirt, she accomplished, in fact, the very opposite, and smeared it with blood. “Mmmm,” she moaned as she took her first bite, and the juice trailed down her chin, leaving flesh-colored rivulets on a crimson background.

Her giggle was unnaturally high-pitched and saccharine.

The glitter in her eyes was feverish, but superficial, a thin layer that couldn’t disguise the vacancy beneath.

Johanna and Cato turned to face one another, deathly pale and terrified.

“Oh fuck,” Johanna whispered. “She’s lost her goddamned mind.”

\----------

As soon as the sun’s rays began to peek through the leaves, Hera stood up and made her way to the Cornucopia, stealthy as a fox.

“Hello!” she called cheerfully when she reached the clearing an hour or so later. Marvel and Clove were eating their breakfast, and they both jumped at the sound of her voice. But they quickly recovered, sneering as they pivoted to face her. Marvel’s hand was on a sword in his belt, and Clove’s was on a machete. Their faces fell, however, as they took in Hera’s appearance.

“What the…?” Clove started to say.

Hera smiled at her. An affable, friendly smile. Then she whipped out a knife and sent it straight into her left eye.

Marvel had started to charge towards Hera at full-speed, sword raised, but he stopped when her knife sailed past him. He turned his head and gaped as Clove’s body crumpled to the ground, but only for a second. Then his body followed his head and he fled in the opposite direction.

“Don’t run!” Hera called out, plucking another knife from her holster and chasing after him, but her shout was overpowered by the sound of the cannon. “There’s nothing to be afraid of! This isn’t real! It isn’t happening!” But he didn’t stop running. Until he tripped and fell flat on his face. “Marvel!” she called as she caught up with him. “It’s ok. It’s just a dream.” But he didn’t move. And then she noticed the red, seeping out from under his body.

She sheathed her knife and knelt beside him, pushing at his shoulder, but he was too heavy for her to roll him over. He looked up at her and she thought maybe he was trying to say something, but all she heard was a raspy, bubbling, gurgling sound. She put her face to the ground and lifted his shoulder as high as she could to peek under his body. He had fallen on his own sword, slicing himself diagonally through the chest and abdomen.

“Oh good. Now I can wake up,” she said to him, and sat back on her heels to wait for her nightmare to end.

 

 


	11. Mirror Image

“A _what_?” Cato asked Dr. Aurelius. The psychiatrist had been sent by the gamemakers to evaluate Hera and he stood beside Cato as the younger man gazed down at his sleeping tribute. He wanted more than anything to put out his hands to touch her to make sure she was real and whole and alive. But he didn’t.

“A psychotic break.”

“Stop using your fancy fucking doctor words and tell me what that means.”

The doctor sighed. “She didn’t understand what was real and what wasn’t. She thought she was having a nightmare. Or at least that’s what I’m assuming since she said something about waking up after the boy from 1 fell on his sword.”

“A nightmare?”

“It’s a protective measure. When the mind can’t handle the reality of a situation, it tends to find another way to frame it. We all do it. All the time. Subconsciously. Just not...not on this scale.”

“People have psychotic breaks all the time?!”

“No. But we frame situations to make things more convenient for us.”

“Can you fix it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you make it so she can tell the difference again? Between what’s real and what’s not?”

“Well, she’ll probably already be back to normal in that sense when she wakes. It’s the PTSD we’ll need to deal with now.”

“The what?”

The doctor sighed again. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. The guilt and pain she’ll feel. And how she’ll deal with it.”

“How do most people deal with it?”

“Depends. Everyone is different. She could have more psychotic breaks. Or maybe not. Maybe it will show in other ways. Substance abuse. Alcoholism. Anger issues. Not eating. Eating too much. Not sleeping. Sleeping too much. Promiscuity. Depression. Apathy. Cutting. Suicide. How have you dealt with it?”

“Dealt with what?”

“With what I just said. The guilt and the pain.”

“Uhhh, I don’t deal with it. I don’t have to. I don’t feel either of those things.”

“Well, right, of course you don’t actually _feel_ either of those things. Because you’re probably disguising them with other things.”

Cato laughed and shook his head, but Dr. Aurelius was studying him soberly. “None of those things I listed apply to you? Drinking?” _Check._ “Random sex?” _Check._ “Apathy?” _Check._

_Suicidal thoughts? Check._

“No,” Cato growled, and glared at him.

\----------

She didn’t understand at first when they brought her out of sedation. Anything. Where she was. What time of day it was. What time of year it was. What she was doing in this room with all of this medical equipment. Why the left side of her face hurt and her knuckles were bruised. She simply lay there, her mind blank, and stared at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.

It began to come back to her when she turned her head and saw Gianni sitting next to the bed.

“Hi honey,” he said, taking her hand and looking down at her with sympathetic eyes.

“Am I--?” _Am I what? Dead? Alive? Insane?_

“You won,” he said simply.

It was surreal. She had never considered the possibility that she would make it out of the arena, and now that she had she felt detached from her games. Removed, as though they’d taken place years ago.

“I...survived the games?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That means Rue is dead.”

“I’m sorry sweetie,” he said sadly.

“My face hurts.”

“Yes, Clay punched you.”

She remembered. She ran her tongue along her teeth, but she felt no gap in the line. “I thought I lost two teeth.”

“They replaced them with implants while you were out.”

She fell silent.

“I killed people,” she said after a few minutes.

Gianni sucked in a deep breath.

“Who did I kill?” She knew the answer, but she had to hear it, she had to be sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her.

“Hera…”

“Who did I kill?”

“Glimmer. And Clay. And Clove.”

“And Marvel.”

“No. He fell on his own sword and bled to death.”

“But it was my fault.”

Gianni squeezed her hand, trying to comfort her, but she closed her eyes and turned her face away. She should be crying or screaming or throwing things and beating her fists into the wall. But she felt too washed out, too hollow to do any of those things.

“When’s my interview?” she asked when she opened her eyes again and turned back towards him.

“I don’t think you should worry about that right n--”

“I wanna do it as soon as possible. Tonight if I can.”

\----------

They released her a couple of hours later, after Dr. Aurelius had cleared her to go back to the District 7 apartment. As she walked out of the recovery room, Cato stood from his seat on the bench in the hallway, and peered down at her, scrutinizing her face.

“What?” she asked coldly, looking back up at him, her eyes dull. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just...I wanna...see how you’re doing with all of this.”

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just thought--”

“You were fine after your games, weren’t you? And so was Lars. And Alec. And Laila. Why would I be any different?”

It was the most terrifying thing she could have said.

\----------

They couldn’t pull off her interview for that night. It was too late. So it was set for the following evening, at 8:00pm. It would last for about an hour and then there would be a celebration afterward at President Snow’s mansion.

Gianni sat with her that evening in the District 7 apartment, and they pretended to watch post-games commentary, though neither of them were actually paying attention. He had laid out three different sketches of dresses he had designed for her post-games interview. Hera picked them up and pretended to consider them, but she stared at the pages blindly, and then set them back on the coffee table.

“I know when you first got here you said nothing that shows your back,” Gianni said, gesturing to a sketch of a backless sea-green gown. “But I just thought...those scars...they’re a part of you. I think they’re beautiful. I think you should show them off.”

She didn’t say anything, just stared at the tv screen.

“Hera, sweetie?”

“Yeah?” she asked colorlessly, turning to face him.

“Nothing,” Gianni said. He was finding her lack of emotion disconcerting. “Which dress dear?”

She leaned over the coffee table and selected the backless gown. “This one,” she said, handing it to Gianni and turning back to the tv.

\----------

She had dreams that night. Horrible ones.

 _You failed me_ Rue’s head, sitting beside her body, said to Hera. _This is your fault_.

Clay laughed at her, and this time she could hear it. An evil, mocking laugh that gave way to piercing cries for mercy as Hera stabbed his eyes out.

She woke, unable to move, every muscle in her body tensed. Her mouth was open, as though she were trying to scream, but no sound came out. She was covered in sweat, but she felt like she was freezing. After a minute or so, she found she could wiggle her fingers and toes, and she pulled the blanket tightly around her. But it did nothing to warm her, because the chill that wracked her body with shivers was emanating from inside of her, from the very marrow of her bones.

\----------

They’d put her in a silk dress the color of her eyes. It flowed like liquid over her curves, over the hollow of her waist, over the flat plane of her stomach and over the sharp ridges of her hipbones. The skin of her shoulders and arms had been polished until it was glowing and smooth. A diamond cuff adorned her right wrist, and one leg peeked tauntingly out of a slit in the side of her skirt. As they had for every other public event, her prep team had piled her hair on top of her head to draw attention to her long graceful neck and high cheekbones, leaving a few silky wisps loose to frame her face. Cato didn’t know much about makeup but they had smudged some kind of bronze shit onto her lids and made her lashes heavy and sooty, so that her gaze was sleepy and sensual. She looked, as Gianni had once said, positively fuckable.

The dress was backless, showcasing her scars, and Cato had never seen anything so beautiful.

Caesar called out her name, and the crowd roared as she walked across the stage. When she reached the host, he took hold of her fingers, and lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles heartily. The diamonds on her wrist glittered wickedly.

“Gorgeous, just stunning,” Caesar said as he dropped her hand and motioned for her to sit on the loveseat.

She didn’t acknowledge the compliment, just took her seat, and crossed her legs, exposing both of her calves and one delicious thigh to the world. As he watched on the monitor backstage, Cato thought that she had to have been the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen, but he was finding her composure terrifying at the same time.

“Hera, now you actually came away from your games in good shape compared to most other Victors, but you did still take one good punch there. Tell us, how are you feeling?”

“A little sore, a little tired, but overall, I’m good, thank you.”

“Tell us about those first five days.”

“They were cold and they were boring.” The audience laughed.

And so it went. Caesar asked her questions about her training, her strategy, her experience in the arena. Hera gave all the appropriate answers, with a witty comment thrown in every now and then.

“Now, I couldn’t help but notice the scars on your back,” Caesar said. “We know they didn’t come from the arena...would you mind telling us how you got them?”

Cato sucked in his breath sharply, but Hera seemed completely unfazed. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes like a cat. “Let’s just say I had a rough childhood,” she said wryly.

She grew mysterious and gave Caesar a sly, teasing look when he asked her about the logger. “This Dean Callahan,” the host said. “He’s a handsome fellow. Tell us about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, I think we’re all wondering...is there a future for the two of you?”

Hera laughed lightly. “I feel like that’s something I should discuss with him in private before I share it with the nation. Don’t you think, Caesar?”

She turned glacial when asked about Rue and what was going through her mind as she attacked Clay.

“I wanted revenge for her,” she said and her voice was hard and flat. “So I took it. It was as simple as that.”

When they called him out on stage to join her, she rose and turned to face him, smirking and stretching out a hand for him to kiss, like a queen demanding homage from a lord. And Cato, stupefied by this side of her, took it and bent his head to brush his lips across her knuckles.

As he lifted his eyes to hers, he was struck by the realization that he was looking at his female counterpart, at a mirror image of himself. Jaded and icy on the outside. Empty on the inside.

It made his blood freeze in his veins and his heart stop in his chest. But he had no choice but to right himself and put on his Capitol Cato persona, cool and smug.

“So Cato,” Caesar said once he had taken his seat, “there’s a debate going on among the citizens of the Capitol right now as to which one of you would win if you were thrown into the arena together. We’d like to know what you think.”

Cato laughed. “Going straight for the jugular, I see. I thought I’d at least get a couple of softballs to ease me into this.” He met Hera’s eyes and returned her smirk with one of his own. “It all depends on whether or not she was able to get her hands on a knife.”

“I seem to remember in her pre-games interview that she said something about not being able to retain anything you taught her because she was so distracted by your looks.”

“I think it’s safe to say she was lying about that,” Cato said.

“You don’t think he’s good looking?” Caesar asked Hera. “You’ve got to be the only woman in all of Panem who doesn’t think so.”

She shrugged dismissively. “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about. I mean he’s a nice piece of eye candy, but he’s insufferable. He’s arrogant and he’s got a nasty temper. It made for excellent motivation.”

“Motivation?” Caesar asked.

“Yes, I pictured those gorgeous blue eyes on every hologram. Pictured the blade of every knife sailing right into the left one.”

The audience erupted with raucous laughter, and the two of them continued on through the interview without breaking character.

And then it was time to watch the highlights from the games.

Anyone watching would have thought nothing was amiss, but as Cato monitored Hera from the corner of his eye, he had a sick feeling that she wasn’t there next to him. Instead, she stood behind him, watching herself watch herself while she lounged in a silk sea-colored gown on the loveseat across from Caesar, one leg draped languidly over the other, her hands resting on her bare thigh. The crowd adored her.

\----------

She was the jewel of the party. The women wanted to be her, the men wanted to fuck her. The hand that was clad in the diamond cuff was never without a glass of champagne and she charmed everyone she spoke to--including President Snow--with her dry, acidic wit and her slightly disdainful attitude.

It was a stark contrast to the soft, glowing Hera who had mischievously put Clay in his place and radiated warmth as she held Lila Dunderhaven’s son at the Sponsor Gala.

Cato was surprised to discover that Lila had noticed the change as well. “There’s something wrong with her,” she said soberly as she approached him when he went to the bar to refill his glass. “She’s different.”

“She’ll be fine,” he lied. He didn’t want to give voice to his fears in public.

“I don’t like the games anymore,” Lila whispered softly. “I think they should be stopped. I can’t stand to watch all this suffering.”

Cato turned to face her abruptly with wide eyes. “Shut up Lila,” he hissed, glancing around them to see if anyone had heard what she’d said. Her words could be taken as treasonous. She could be put to death for them.

He sighed and softened when he saw how sad her expression was. “Maybe you could bring your son to see her before she leaves the Capitol. You know, cheer her up. She likes babies.”

“I think she’s gonna need more help than that,” Lila said sorrowfully, and turned and walked away.

\----------

The guests gathered on the lawn around midnight for fireworks. They were gorgeous. Pink and gold and white shimmering against the black sky.

Cato stood next to Hera at the front of the crowd.

“Have you ever seen fireworks before?” he asked, glancing down at her.

“No.” Her eyes were fixed on the sky, but something told him that she wasn’t actually _seeing_ what she was looking at.

“What do you think of them?”

“Yeah. They’re nice.” Her tone was flat and disinterested. She sounded bored. She sounded apathetic. She sounded like him.

Pre-games Hera would have loved them. She would have stared up at the sky in wonder with shining eyes. She would have gasped with delight. _And then I would have made some fucked up comment and ruined it for her_ he thought bitterly. _I would have shit all over it._

The party really started getting into full swing after the fireworks ended, and when they returned to the ballroom, people began to insist that Cato and Hera dance with one another. Though they all cooed over the supposed romance between their newest Victor and the logger from District 7, there was something alluring to them about the idea of a liaison between the ruthless Cato and his protege.

“Only if she wants to,” Cato said when Seneca approached them about it as they stood talking with Johanna.

“Whoa,” Johanna said. “Who are you and what have you done with that asshole who won the 71st games? You’re never this considerate.”

“He’s decided to treat me like a human being now that I’ve won the games and put him 2 for 3. Isn’t that right?” she asked turning to him. He was taken aback. “It’s fine,” she said to Seneca, and she walked out onto the dance floor.

Even in the midst of his fright and awe, he found that his body still wanted hers. When she laid her little hand on his shoulder, he could feel it burning into his flesh beneath the fabric of his jacket and his shirt. A frisson of desire coursed down his spine as they laced their fingers together, and when he laid his hand on the bare, silky skin of her back, it took all of his self-control not to trace his fingers over her scars. She, on the other hand, appeared to be completely indifferent to the intimacy of their touch.

When the music started and they had settled into a lazy rhythm, she looked up at him. “So how does it feel to win?” she purred.

He stiffened. He couldn’t read the expression in her eyes and there was something dangerous about her tone. He wasn’t sure where she was going with this and it unnerved him. “You’re not my first Victor.”

“True, but you won in another category.”

This couldn’t be going anywhere good. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about me. You were right. I’m a hypocrite. I’m no different than you.”

“Yes you are,” he whispered hotly. “Don’t say that. You’re not me. You are _not_ me.”

“Easy there tiger. Alright, I’m not you. I didn’t realize you were so touchy about your status as Panem’s greatest Victor.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Are you mad that I managed to achieve something you didn’t?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked again.

“Three careers I killed. Three. I’m the only tribute ever to do that. Even _you_ only killed one. And I would have killed four if that ass clown hadn’t fallen on his own sword. Twelve years of training, makes it to the last two, and dies as a result of running with a sharp object,” she said derisively. “I’m sorry I didn’t quite deliver on the grand finale, but surely that little show I put on with Clay made up for it.”

“Why are you talking like this? This isn’t you.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To see me topple off of my high horse?”

“No!" 

“Well then why aren’t you happy? Butcher or cattle, you said. And all through my training you made it clear you thought I was the cattle, and you whined about how I’d embarrass you. So I became the butcher. I won. And now everyone’s talking about what an incredible mentor you are. Won your first year with Alec. Turned me--scum from 7--into a Victor. So tell me,” she whispered, and her eyes were almost pleading with him, “did I make you proud? Are you proud of me?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“No? Oh, I get it. I wasn’t supposed to win. I was supposed to make it as far as I could so your mentoring stats wouldn’t suffer, but Clay was supposed to kill me. Clay was supped to win.”

“No that’s not it,” he protested desperately

“I don’t understand. I can’t win with you. What do you want from me?”

But he didn’t get a chance to answer, because as the song ended and another one began, President Snow laid a hand on his arm. “Mind if I take over my boy?”

Hera smiled up at the President, and disengaged herself from Cato. “Of course he doesn’t mind,” she answered sweetly for him. “He doesn’t actually like me, you know.”

“Why ever not?” Snow asked as he whisked her away. “You’re such a lovely little thing.”

Cato watched them in dismay, his answer to her last question rising from his heart to be caught in the net of his mouth.

_ I want you to be happy. I want you to be whole. I want you to jump in puddles and catch frogs. I want you to laugh so hard that cream soda comes out of your nose. I want your face to light up like a little girl’s when you watch fireworks. I want you to be who you were before we destroyed you. _


	12. Gone Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like your fanfiction to come with a soundtrack, I recommend the following songs to help set the tone of this story:
> 
> Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones  
> Hey Man Nice Shot by Filter  
> Talk Show Host by Radiohead  
> How to Disappear Completely, also by Radiohead  
> Once Upon a Dream by Lana Del Rey

Cato woke early the next morning to the sound of the tv in the living room blaring, and was surprised to find Hera still in her gown, sitting on the couch and staring at the screen..

“What are you doing?” he asked as he rubbed his eyes tiredly with the heels of his hands

“I couldn’t sleep.” _Insomnia. Check._

He took the remote from the coffee table and lowered the volume. “I’ll have them bring up breakfast now then.”

“I’m not hungry.” _Not eating. Check._

He didn’t know what to say but he couldn’t stand the way she was just staring at the tv, her gown wrinkled, her face exhausted. “You should eat something.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

When she reappeared half an hour later, Gianni had arrived to talk clothing with her.

“Good morning honey,” he said. “Are you ready to pick out your outfit for your homecoming?”

“No, I’m not going back.”

“Sweetie!” Trini exclaimed. “Don’t you want to see them all? Uma and the Callahans?”

“No.”

Gianni and Trini looked at her in disbelief, but Cato understood. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see them. It was that she didn’t want _them_ to see _her_.

\----------

He couldn’t find Seneca, but he managed to get ahold of Plutarch Heavensbee’s assistant to schedule a meeting with him early that afternoon.

“She doesn’t want to go back to 7,” he told the gamemaker.

“She has to. They have to have footage of her homecoming.”

“Why? So we can parade her around like a goddamn museum exhibit?” he spat. He felt so helpless and impotent. He couldn’t protect her from any of this.

“We paraded you around like a goddamn museum exhibit,” Heavensbee pointed out mildly. “We still do.”

“That’s different. _She’s_ different. She is _not_ me.”

Heavensbee was intrigued. He’d never seen Cato like this. “What is it you’re worried about Cato?”

“That she’ll turn into the next Annie Cresta.”

“I’m surprised you care.” Cato glared at him. “Look, I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do. The President will never allow it unless she truly is too insane to perform.”

Cato kicked at one of the chairs. “Fine,” he growled.

But he got his way about her father. “If you want her to put on a show like she did for you during her interview you have to make sure he’s banned,” he told Heavensbee. “Tell the mayor in 7. And the Peacekeepers.”

“I was under the impression she didn’t have a relationship with him. So why would he show up?”

“Ha! He’ll show up. Trust me. He’ll want money.”

“And if we don’t ban him?”

Cato grinned sadistically. “Then you’ll get to witness his murder at my hands on live television.”

“We could execute you for that.”

“And I’d die a happy man.”

“Alright. We’ll make sure he’s detained when she arrives.”

\----------

She did what was asked of her when they arrived in 7. She greeted the cheering crowd at the train station with a forced smile and a wave.

Dean had forbidden his children to watch the games so that she would remain unsullied in their eyes. They ran to her with arms outstretched, and for a few minutes, Hera felt as though she’d been transported back four months. She laughed as she hugged Tara and as she ruffled Cole’s hair affectionately, and she put her hands on either side of Reese’s face before bending down to place a kiss on his forehead.

And then Dean was in front of her, smiling and holding out Mia. She took the baby in her arms and and placed a raspberry on her cheek, and Mia erupted into giggles. “Look how big you are!” she exclaimed.

Then she looked into Dean’s eyes. And they knew. Both of them. It would never work now. The window of opportunity for them was closed.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said softly, his eyes sad. “I’ll never be able to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“I’d just like to spend some time with them before I go back.”

He looked confused. “Before you go back?”

“To the Capitol. I can’t stay here,” she said softly. “I can’t.”

“Are you...are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” she reassured him. It was the second sweetest lie she’d ever told. “I just can’t stay here.”

And then Uma ran up to her and threw her arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh my god, Uma, it’s ok, it’s ok, calm down,” Hera said, rubbing her back and laughing a little.

“You’re alive!”

“Yes, I’m alive,” she said, and it was the truth.

“I’m fine,” she said, and it was a lie.

\----------

“Tell me everything,” Uma said to her when they were alone together.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Hera said. “Why don’t you tell me what I’ve missed here. How is working for Dean?”

A dreamy look crossed Uma’s face for a second. “He’s so sexy.” She snapped out of it. “But he’s yours, obviously, of course. Sorry.” She looked sheepish.

“Uma. He’s not mine. I’m not gonna marry him.”

Uma looked at her incredulously “But why not? You’re back and you’re rich and you can move him into Victor’s Village and make lots of babies!”

Hera studied her sadly. How naive she was. “Did you watch my games?”

“Yes. And it was awful. But you did what you had to do. No one blames you for that. And the kids didn’t see it. They still think you’re an angel. You still _are_ an angel.”

“No. I’m not. And it’s not gonna happen. It’s not meant to be.”

“Is it Cato?”

“ _What?_ ”

“He’s so fucking hot. And he’s obsessed with you.”

“Wh--no he’s not!”

“Oh yes he is. You should have seen it. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you at the train station. And when you were talking to Dean he looked like he wanted to murder him. And your interview. He was watching you from his periph the entire time.”

“Oh my god you’re crazy.”

“I was right about Dean wasn’t I?”

“He _told_ you he was gonna ask me to marry him.”

“Still. I knew before that. I have a feeling for these things.”

“Well you’re wrong about this one. And even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. Because I sure as hell don’t feel that way about him.”

\----------

Hera stood in the foyer of her new mansion, looking up at the ceiling. She was flanked by Gianni and Johanna. Cato stood behind her.

“Well what do you think?” Trini asked her anxiously, her voice echoing a little off of the empty walls.

“It’s big,” Hera said flatly.

“Maybe once you get some furniture…and if you paint the walls some nice warm colors…” But Trini trailed off.

“I’m not gonna buy any furniture. I’m not gonna paint the walls. I’m not gonna live here.”

They looked at her.

“I’m going back to the Capitol with you guys. I don’t belong here. I’m one of you now.”

\---------

Cato hadn’t seen his place in Victor’s Row, the Capitol street lined with limestone townhouses inhabited by the survivors of each year’s games, for almost a year. It was on the very edge of the city, and so he had always just stayed at the Training Center while he was mentoring for the sake of convenience.

He sighed as he swiped a finger across the dusty surface of the entrance table. He’d hired an interior designer when he’d first moved in four years ago, and everything was sleek and masculine and incredibly expensive. He hated it.

He sat down on the stairway and rubbed his hands across his eyes tiredly, and he thought about Hera. Gianni had told her to come stay with him for a few days while her place was being made ready for her. She would be living across the street from Cato, and three doors down. But he probably wouldn’t see her except in passing until just before the tour. There was no reason to. She didn’t like him. She didn’t want to see him. And he didn’t blame her. He didn’t like himself either.

He was interrupted from his bitter musings by a knock at the door. He sighed and stood, wondering who on earth it could be.

When he opened it there before him stood a tall woman who looked to be in her early forties. With long blond hair and eyes like shadows on snow. The two of them stared at each other as though they were ghosts.

“Momma,” he whispered.

“Cato,” she said with an aching voice, and then she opened her arms.

He stepped into them, and then he bawled like a baby.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed into her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He repeated it over and over again. To his mother. To twenty-three dead children. To the family of a twelve-year-old boy with green eyes. To Damian Sanders and all the other boys he’d bullied at the Academy. To all of the women he’d used and then tossed to the side. To a girl with a voice like honey and eyes the color of the sea.

\----------

“What made you come?” he asked his mother as the two of them sat on the balcony of his second story, watching the sunset.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and she handed it to him.

It was a letter, he realized, as he unfolded it.

 _Hello_ it said.

_My name is Hera Greenleaf. I’m eighteen years old and I’m the female tribute from 7 this year. Your son Cato is my mentor. I won’t even pretend to understand what you’ve been through but I am begging you to reach out to him. He’s lost. Or maybe he never found his way to begin with. Either way he needs you even if he’s too proud to say it. Someone told me that after his games he went to the place he grew up but that you weren’t there. They said that his father came to visit him and when they told him there was a family member at the door his eyes lit up because he thought it was you. His mentor, Brutus, found out where you are but they didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know you’re in the Capitol or even if you’re alive. And maybe you don’t want to have anything to do with him because of the things he’s done, and I can understand that, but I know that’s not who he really is. I know that he couldn’t find any other path except the one that led him to become a Victor and now a mentor. And deep down it’s not the life he wants for himself. But he can’t leave it because if he does he’ll be all by himself with no one to help him. And I would try if I could. But I won’t be alive to do it. So please, please, please come back to him. If for no other reason than to grant the last wish of a dead girl walking._

It was dated July 30. She had written it the night before she had entered the arena. She had written it even after all of the terrible things he had done and said to her.

He stared at the letter until his eyes blurred with tears.

“Cato,” his mother said. “I don’t know much. But this Hera. I saw her reaping. And now this…” she reached over and tapped the letter. “She’s a beautiful person.”

He couldn’t say anything. His throat was too tight. He could only nod.

“Are you two…?”

“No. No. She doesn’t feel that way about me.”

There was silence between the two of them for a minute before his mother spoke again. “That comment implies that you feel _that way_ about her.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I treated her so badly. And now she’s…” he shook the paper in his hand. “...now she’s lost too.” He scrubbed a rogue tear from his cheek. “And I want to help her but I have no idea how. What do I even--? How do I--?”

“I’m hardly one to talk.” his mother said gently, “but maybe you could start by helping yourself.”

\----------

He sat in the big cushy chair in Dr. Aurelius’s office and glared at the man.

“Look,” the psychiatrist said to him. “It’s a good sign that you’re even here. But if you want me to help you, you are going to have to talk about _something._ ”

“And I will. Just not my mom. Or my father. Or my games. Or...her,” he said, listing off all of the topics that Dr. Aurelius had tried to bring up.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! It just does.”

“Cato.”

“Because all of those things make me...feel...things.”

“That’s the whole point of this Cato. But let’s start with something easy that doesn’t make you, as you say, feel things, and then we can work into those other topics later. Tell me about being an instructor at the Academy.”

\----------

Cato had found that the people from 2 were not, in fact, angry with him for what he’d done to save Hera. He had kept their District mentoring score solidly above that of their archrivals in 1, and they were proud of him. They were ashamed of Clay, who had died like a complete fool in their eyes. “Go ahead,” he’d said tauntingly to Hera as she’d spit her teeth out onto the ground. “Hit me with your best shot.” _Famous last words_ they’d muttered with disgust as they watched her saw off his head with his own sword.

Still, he was in no hurry to return to his home district.

“I’m not going back to 2 for a while,” he told Brutus. “For at least a year. I want to spend time with my mom. And I want a break from mentoring.”

Brutus nodded in understanding. “You’ve done it three years in a row now. Four if you count shadowing Enobaria that first year after your games.”

“Sorry about leaving you hanging at the Academy.”

Brutus shrugged. “We can cover it. You need a break son. You look like shit. This last one really took a lot out of you didn’t it?”

It was Brutus’s way of showing concern and it made Cato feel like crying. “Most days I’m glad she lived,” he said quietly. “But sometimes I wonder if it would have been kinder of me to let her die.”

“You know you’re in love with her, right?”

“Yes.”

“You think she knows?”

“No.”

“You planning to do anything about that?”

Cato looked down at his hands. “I did some damage that I gotta try to fix first.”

“You pull her pigtails too hard?”

“Something like that.”

“I warned you about that, you remember?”

I remember,” he said, rolling his eyes like teenager.

\----------

Hera hadn’t realized how heavily the strain of having to act like she was fine for the television cameras and the Capitol bigwigs and her own loved ones from 7 had weighed on her until she no longer had to keep up the facade.

Now that the world had left her to herself, she found that everything took too much energy and nothing was worth the effort. Showering. Eating. Moving.

She spent her day sitting in the front window of her townhouse in Victor’s Row and watching listlessly as the people walked by.

Lila and Gianni, sensing that she couldn’t have cared less what her place looked like, but insisting that she needed to at least have the basics, supervised the furnishing of it for her. So she had a bed with sheets and blankets and a kitchen stocked with food and dishes.

But she didn’t use the bed, and the covers remained neatly tucked in. Sleep, she had learned, meant nightmares. So she sat on the couch all night long and stared at the tv screen. Sometimes, in spite of her best efforts, she dozed off for a few hours until the bloody images that painted the backs of her eyelids drove her to jerk herself awake.

The dishes in her kitchen were never dirty and the food in the refrigerator went rotten. Gianni and Trini and even Johanna, who spent a lot of her time in the Capitol, stopped by every day at different times and tried to make her eat, but the food tasted like sawdust.

The highlight of her day was when Lila brought her son, Chaz, over. Then Hera would bounce him on her knee and sing to him, and for a while, things wouldn’t seem so bad. But they would turn bleak again as soon as Lila left.

Her head felt heavy and hot, even when the rest of her was freezing, but her eyes were dry. Her soul felt like the soil during a drought, dusty and cracked, and dangerously close to being blown away by the next gust of wind.

She could see the concern on the faces of her friends grow more and more pronounced, until it began to turn into genuine fear for her health. But she just didn’t care. Because everything took too much energy and nothing was worth the effort.

\----------

“I don’t think she wants to see me anytime soon,” Cato said when Gianni called him, frantic with worry. “I wasn’t exactly the world’s nicest mentor to her.”

“Well I don’t know what else to do,” Gianni said. “I thought you cared about her.”

“I do. But do you really think _I_ can make her eat? Or sleep? If anything, I might make her more depressed.”

“Look, I told her the other day that I was worried she was going to starve to death, and do you know what she said? She said it doesn’t matter anyway because it’s not like she does anything good for anyone.”

Cato’s chest seized up in fear. “Yes she does. What she did for that little girl from 11--”

“She’s completely guilt-ridden about that. She thinks it’s her fault. That she should have gone for the water by herself earlier in the day and left Rue behind. Or that she should have brought Rue with her to the stream so she could protect her.”

“But it’s not her fault! And it’s not just that that she’s done. My mother--” but his throat started to close up.

“I know. I’m the one who sent the letter for her. She doesn’t know, you know. That your mother came back to you. Maybe you should tell her. Maybe it would help. But don’t tell her you know she wrote that letter. It would just make her uncomfortable.”

Cato sighed, still uncertain. “What if I make it worse?”

“Just come over.”

\----------

She sat on the balcony overlooking the street. She looked as though she hadn’t showered for days. She was bordering on emaciation, and her shoulder blades jutted out beneath the fabric of her clothing, sharp as her knives. Cato was certain that if he ran his palm over one of them, his skin would tear and come away bleeding. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was the color of plums. Twin half-moon-shaped bruises left by the fist of insomnia.

She didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence, although he knew that she knew he was there. She had been looking down at him when he’d entered her front door.

“Jesus,” he said to Gianni. He felt sick with worry.

“I _told_ you.”

\----------

Hera could hear hushed voices on the other side of the door and she knew they were talking about her. They were always talking about her these days. How thin she was. How she wasn’t sleeping. How worried they were about her. But she mostly pretended not to hear. The low voice was Cato’s, she knew. But she didn’t recognize the second voice, although she could tell it belonged to a woman.

She mustered up enough energy to wonder who it was, but only for a second, and then she went back to not caring.

The door opened and the mystery woman walked out onto the balcony and came over to where she was sitting. She was tall and lithe and blond, and at first Hera was confused as to her identity. But then she looked up and met the woman’s gaze and she knew who it was immediately. It was Cato’s mother.

The strangest sensation came over her, as though she’d known her all of her life.

Her visitor must have felt exactly the same way, because she took Hera’s face in her hands and searched it over, her eyes full of compassion and understanding. “Oh _sweetie_ ,” she said softly, and Hera closed her eyes, and swallowed with an aching throat.

She wanted to cry so badly. So she tried to. But she couldn’t.

\----------

“She was right,” Cato said to Dr. Aurelius. “ There was no way she could have won with me. I tore her to pieces every day before the games because I couldn’t stand to look at her.”

“Couldn’t stand to look at her? Why?”

“Because she was...she was clean and warm...and full of light. Like the sun or something. Not...not a monster like me and Brutus and Enobaria and all the rest of us. She was so much better. And I hated her for it.”

“And now you think she’s a ‘monster’ like you?”

“No. She’s not a monster. She’s just...gone. Like she evaporated into thin air and left her body here, walking around and doing and saying what they want her to do and say. And when the Capitol isn’t parading her around like some object and she doesn’t have to function, she doesn’t. She just sits there. She doesn’t eat. She hardly sleeps. She’s wasting away. She’s….” he laughed at himself mirthlessly. “She’s a dead girl walking. I called her that once. To her face. Right at the beginning. I just meant it differently.”

He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I want her back,” he whispered. “I want the sun back.”

“And what the fuck is that?” he asked angrily, turning on himself. “Wanting to see someone destroyed and then wanting them back to the way they were once they’ve been beaten down? That is so fucked up. I am _so. fucked. up_.”

When he didn’t say anything more, Dr. Aurelius spoke up. “Let’s go back. You say she’s not a monster. But that’s how you refer to yourself. And yet you’ve both killed people.”

“It’s not the same thing. She volunteered to save the life of an innocent child. I volunteered for money and fame.”

“Why did you want the money and the fame?”

“I don’t know. I just did.”

“Well you had your reasons for wanting those things, even if you don’t know what they are. And I have a few ideas, but we’ll get to that another day. Now, you said she’s just doing and saying what they want her to. What is it that makes you do and say the things you do and say?”

“It’s just who I’ve always been.”

“Always? What about before you went to the Academy?”

“Well no, I was different before that. But I was really young. And it’s different when you get to the Academy. If you want to survive you have to behave a certain way.”

“Ahhh.”

“What?”

“You have to do and say what they want you to, don’t you?”

\----------

She’d been seeing Dr. Aurelius every day for three weeks. Cato’s mother had convinced her to.

He made her talk about the death of her mother. About her father and how he abused her and how she had basically lived her entire life in a state of perpetual fear that culminated in the arena. About Dean Callahan and how she didn’t really love him—didn’t really know him even—but she would have said yes to his proposal anyway before the games and not just because she loved his children but because of the sense of safety and security that she anticipated marriage to him would bring her.

He made her talk about Rue. About Glimmer. About Clay. About Clove. And even about Marvel.

About her nightmares and how she couldn’t cry, even when she wanted to. Even when Dr. Aurelius made her process what she’d done to Clay.

But it helped anyway. To talk about it. It really did. She still wasn’t sleeping much and she still had nightmares, but she could swallow a little bit of food every day, even if she couldn’t really taste it. And she still felt like she was swimming in guilt, but she could keep her head above water most of the time.

“I thought we’d spend our time today talking about Cato,” Dr. Aurelius said one day after Hera had settled herself into the armchair in his office.

“Why the fuck would we need to talk about Cato?” she snapped sullenly.

“And that right there is exactly why we need to talk about him.”

\----------

Gianni and Trini appeared a few days later at Hera’s house to help her prepare for her Victory Tour.

Trini glanced at the clock impatiently and tapped her foot on the floor. “Where is he? I have dinner plans.”

“Where is who?” Hera asked.

“Cato. He’s supposed to be here for this too.”

“Calm down,” Gianni said. “He’s probably just running late from his appointment with Dr. Aurelius.”

“His _what?_ ” Hera asked incredulously.

“His appointment with Dr. Aurelius.”

“Why is _he_ meeting with Dr. Aurelius?”

“Same reason as you. He’s been seeing him three days a week.”

“Since when?”

“Since before you started seeing him.”

“...oh.”

Curiosity skittered across the surface of her brain.  

She wondered if Dr. Aurelius made Cato talk about her like he made her talk about Cato.

And if he did, she wondered what he said about her.

  
  



	13. Like a Fever Breaking

Her performance in 12, their first stop on the tour, was perfect, at least according to Capitol standards. She was gracious and respectful, and the citizens seemed to take to her more than they had to any other previous Victor. One woman gave her a hug and told her that everyone was talking about how nice it was, what she had done for that little girl from 11.

She didn’t eat dinner that evening, and she sat up all night, staring out the window as the train flew past the foothills of the Appalachian mountains. When she didn’t partake in breakfast the next morning, the rest of them shot each other concerned glances. She’d put a few pounds back on since she’d started seeing Dr. Aurelius, but now they were worried that the tour would send her into a backslide.

“Get out your needle and thread,” Johanna said to Gianni. “It looks like you’re gonna have to start taking her outfits in.”

xxxxxxxxxx

It was in 11 that she finally cried. She met Rue’s family, and they hugged her and thanked her for everything she had done, and insisted that no, it wasn’t her fault that Rue had been killed.

The moment they returned to the train, she shut herself in her room and curled up in a ball and screamed at the top of her lungs over and over and then she wept, her head between her knees, her nails digging into her scalp until she drew blood. “I’m sorry,” she wailed to the empty room. “I’m so sorry.”

Cato broke the lock when she refused to open the door but she screamed at him to go away, her voice hoarse. She didn’t appear to be in danger of harming herself, but he was distraught enough to call Dr. Aurelius.

“No this is good,” the psychiatrist told him reassuringly. “Like a fever breaking.”

xxxxxxxxxx

She came out to the dining car the next morning and fixed herself a plate. They all pretended not to notice as they stuffed their faces and conversed with one another, but they watched from the corners of their eyes as she scooped up melon and scrambled eggs and bacon. They watched as she poured herself a glass of orange juice and selected the gooiest cinnamon roll from the pastry tray. They watched as she sat down and finished every single bite. And they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

xxxxxxxxxx

Every night he could hear her crying through the wall that separated his room from hers, but he left her alone, because even though it made his arms ache to hold her, he knew it was a good sign.

 During the daytime, he hardly spoke to her. He stood next to her at her public appearances when he was supposed to, and if people started to press into her, he glared and pushed them away. But he was careful not to invade her personal space anymore than necessary.

xxxxxxxxxx

They were in 7 and Hera had gone to visit Uma for a couple of hours when a Peacekeeper entered the train.

“There’s someone here to see Miss Greenleaf,” he said.

“Who is it?” Cato asked suspiciously.

“Didn’t say.”

When Cato went to see who it was, he found a man in his early forties. With high cheekbones and eyes that would have looked like Hera’s if they hadn’t been so bloodshot and sore and rabbity.

Cato cocked his head and studied the man. “Let me guess. Hera’s father?”

“Yes,” the man grinned, nodding greedily.

“Of course,” Cato said, chuckling to himself and cracking his knuckles. “Of course you’re here.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“So your father came to visit you today,” Johanna said to Hera when she returned from Uma’s house.

“I have no interest in seeing him,” Hera said coldly.

“And you won’t have to. Cato ran interference for you.”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Gianni murmured.

“What did Cato say to him?” Hera asked in surprise.

“Um, I don’t think it’s so much what he _said_. It’s more what he _did_. But it’s probably best that you don’t know. Don’t worry though. He’ll live. And he still has the use of his limbs…. Or at least he will….In six to eight weeks.”

xxxxxxxxxx

She found Cato that night, after the others had all gone to bed, sitting on the couch and flipping through the tv channels.

She plopped down on the other end of the couch and stared absently at the tv screen, and at first she didn’t say anything. He ignored her presence and continued to flip through the channels.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your plan to get me sponsors?” she asked abruptly after a few minutes.

His hand froze on the remote and he shifted his gaze to the floor in front of the tv. Then he turned to face her.  “Would it have mattered if I had? Would you have believed me? Or would you have just assumed that the reason I videoed you was so I could show it to Clay? Or that I was just trying to trick you into running away from the Cornucopia so you wouldn’t get any supplies or weapons? I mean, how would you have even known that I actually intended to _send_ it to any sponsors?”

“You’re right,” she said, and she was ashamed. “I would never have believed you.”

“I don’t blame you. I never gave you a good reason to trust me. And I gave you a few good reasons not to.”

They were silent again and he went back to channel surfing.

“I never said thank you,” she said after a few more minutes.

He shrugged and this time he didn’t look at her. “Technically I was just doing my job.”

“Well...thank you anyway.”

There were a few more minutes of silence.

“Gianni says they’re not mad at you in 2,” she said eventually.

“No. They’re not.”

“That’s good.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t look at her. She thought maybe she was annoying him. But this had all been weighing on her since she’d started to come back to her normal state of mind in 11, and she was determined to get it all out so she could breathe easier.

“I heard about your run-in with my father this morning. I wondered why he never showed at my homecoming back in August. Did you have something to do with that?”

He still didn’t look at her, but he smiled--a small smile--in the dark. “I might have.”

She smiled and looked down her hands in her lap. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 _There._ Now she could breathe easier. She stood up from the couch and left the room.

She didn’t see him turn his head and watch her leave with longing in his eyes.  

xxxxxxxxxx

They were in 4 and she stood on the shore and stared at the sea in awe, digging her toes into the sand and letting the foam curl around her ankles.

He came to stand beside her, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t want to ruin her moment.

“It’s warm here,” she said after a while.

“Yeah. It’s always warm this far south. It never gets cold really. Never snows.”

They were quiet for a while, listening to the sound of the waves and the cries of the seagulls.

“The air smells like salt,” he said to her.

She looked at him questioningly and then inhaled deeply through her nose. “It does!” she exclaimed softly, and inhaled again.

Her mouth wasn’t smiling, but he thought maybe her eyes were.

“Do you know how to swim?” he asked.

“No.”

“You wanna learn?” She looked at the waves crashing against the sand and shook her head nervously. He laughed. “Not here.” He pointed down the shoreline a hundred yards or so. “There’s like a little pool where the water is trapped by that rock wall. It’s calm. No waves. And it’s only like four feet deep.”

When they reached it, Cato peeled off his shirt and hopped in with his pants still on. Hera looked down at the romper Gianni had put her in and exhaled as she slid onto the rocks on her bottom. She dipped her toes in the water and looked at Cato nervously. “I want to but I’m scared.”

He held out his hand. “Do you trust me?”

She took a deep breath and put her hand in his, and slid off of the rocks and into the pool. As the water engulfed her up to her shoulders she squealed and threw her arms around Cato’s waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. “It’s _freezing!_ ” she cried, and her teeth chattered.

“You’ll get used to it in a couple minutes,” Cato said, trying to pretend that the fact that she was clinging to his shirtless torso wasn’t affecting him at all. It clearly wasn’t affecting her; she was so scared and cold that her brain didn’t have room for anything else.

He grasped her arms and pried them loose, but held onto one of them firmly so she would feel anchored. They just stood there while she swished her free arm around beneath the surface of the water, adjusting to the feel of it all around her.

After a little bit he let go of her arm. “Let’s try floating. Lay back.” She looked at him with panic in her eyes. “I’ve got you,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll make sure your head stays above water.” He put a hand to the back of her neck and cupped the base of her skull. “Lean back and lift your feet, and I’ll support your legs.”

She took a deep breath and did as he instructed, and she let out another squeal, but this one was a little less fearful. He watched her face as she felt, for the first time in her life, the weightlessness of floating. For a few seconds, she looked as though she was thinking hard about whether or not she liked it, and then her eyes started to sparkle and joy spread across her face. He kept his hands beneath her head and thighs as a security blanket, but he wasn’t really supporting her anymore.

“Can I put my head underwater?” she asked, all traces of fear gone.

He laughed. “Yeah, but keep your eyes closed and don’t inhale through your nose. Saltwater stings like a motherfucker.”

So she plugged her nose and he gave her plenty of warning before he dunked her so that her body was completely submerged. She stayed under until she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, and when she shot back up out of the water she was giggling.

Her hair was soaking wet and the drops of water on the tips of her eyelashes sparkled in the western sunlight.

“You’re so--” He stopped abruptly, before the word _beautiful_ came tumbling out of his mouth.

“I’m so what?” she asked, breathing heavily with excitement.

“You’re so funny,” he rescued himself. “You were so scared at first and now look.”

xxxxxxxxxx

They stayed in the water until it started to grow dark, and he taught her to tread water and to paddle her arms and legs so she could move around, and by the time they emerged onto the sand, their fingers were pruney.

“Look at you two!” Trini scolded them when they returned to the train. “Late for dinner and soaking wet on top of it! I cannot believe you traipsed through town like that. What the people here must think of you! And young lady, you could have ruined that outfit. After all the work Gianni’s done to make sure you look good!”

But Gianni didn’t seem angry at all. He just studied the two of them thoughtfully as they rolled their eyes at one another across the dinner table, and stored up his observations so he could share them with Johanna when she returned from having dinner with Finnick and Annie.

“I saw that you two! Don’t you roll those eyes at me!” Trini said sternly. “And these cushions will be _ruined_! They’re _silk_!”

“Sorry Trini,” Hera said, trying to sound contrite, but failing miserably.

They ate their dinner in silence for a few minutes.

“Hera! What has gotten into you today? Where are your manners?” Trini exclaimed all of a sudden. Hera had lifted her forearm to her mouth and was sucking lightly on it.

She dropped her arm and looked a little embarrassed. “My skin tastes like salt,” she explained sheepishly.

When she looked back down at her plate, she was smiling.

 _This is what I wanted for you_ Cato thought, and his heart ached, but this time it was in a good way.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hera remembered what Gianni had said about Cato’s nightmares being especially bad whenever he visited 3. She slept lightly, like a mother with a sick child, and opened her eyes the instant she heard the familiar sounds of his nightmare beginning.

But her voice did little to soothe him tonight, and as she began her second song, her body moved, almost of its own volition, toward his bed until she came to sit on the edge of the mattress and then she reached out a hand and ran it through his hair.

Within half a minute, his breathing had evened out and his body relaxed. He let out a contented sigh, and so Hera returned to her room, shocked at her own boldness. Shocked at how quickly things between the two of them seemed to have changed, but too afraid to think about exactly what that change was and what it meant.

xxxxxxxxxx

She could barely keep it together in 2.

“Do you think they’ll hate me?” she whispered before she went onstage to deliver her speech.

“No,” he said. “They always want someone from 2 to win, but they want them to win because they’re the best. Clay and Clove were obviously not the best. They’ll respect you, just like they do every other Victor who isn’t from here. Plus, I mentored you. So that helps. You’re kind of like an honorary citizen of 2.”

And he was right, but she still felt the guilt of their deaths, and she almost lost it when she saw their families.

She didn’t eat dinner that night, and she went back to avoiding her bed.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Couldn’t sleep?” Cato asked when he emerged from his room at 6am the next morning to find Hera wrapped in a blanket on the couch and staring out the window. The train was set to depart for 1 in a couple of hours.

“Hmm-mm.” She shook her head.

She looked at him curiously as he slung his hoodie on. “I like watching the sunrise when I’m here,” he told her.

“Oh, yeah, you said something about liking early morning the other day.”

“You wanna come?” he asked on impulse as he adjusted his cuffs and his hood.

“Ummm....ok.”

“Bring the blanket. It’ll be cold.”

So he led her out to sit in the long grass, and she traipsed along beside him, wearing her blanket like a cape.

“It smells good,” she said. “The grass.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s almost your favorite time of year. When fall turns into winter. Or at least, it will be in like a month.”

“Actually, my favorite time of year to watch the sunrise is right when winter turns into spring.”

“You like cusps.”

He closed his eyes and tried to think like her, to think about how to describe it to her. “I think it’s because of the contrast. Everything about a season feels more pronounced when it’s just starting. You know, like the wind in early spring. It smells like dirt, but clean dirt, and even when it’s a cold wind, you can feel like just a little bit of warmth on it. Like it’s being blown in from somewhere far away. And the birds are so loud. And everything has like a greenish yellowish tint, even the air.”

He opened his eyes to see her gazing at him intently, as if trying to figure him out. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing. You’re just so different from when I met you.”

He turned to look at the horizon. “I don’t think I am. I just think...maybe...I didn’t really...you know, all the stuff from my time at the Academy and my games kind of...got in the way.”

She nodded and turned back to the horizon. He thought she looked exhausted, and he wondered what it would feel like if he wrapped her up in her blanket like a moth in a cocoon and hauled her onto his lap and into his arms so she could sleep against his chest. He wondered if she had nightmares like he did, and if she did, how he could comfort her the way that she had comforted him. He had felt her touch the night before last, when they’d been in 3. He knew that she had smoothed the hair off of his forehead and scraped her nails lightly across his scalp and even the memory if it made him feel like he was melting in the best sense of the word. He didn’t think she would ever do that while he was awake.

“Do you have nightmares?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“Yeah.”

“I never hear you yell in your sleep.”

“I think I try to scream but no sound comes out. That’s usually what’s happening when I wake up from them. I can’t move and I can’t make a sound. That’s why I don’t like to sleep sometimes.”

“So it’s not actually insomnia. You’re forcing yourself to stay awake.”

“Yeah.”

“I have nightmares too.” He knew she already knew that, but he wanted to see what she would say.

“I know.” She glanced at him. “ I hear sometimes.”

But that was all she said about it.

xxxxxxxxxx

She managed, somehow, to get through 1. The people of that District were not at all as gracious about the whole thing as 2 had been. They watched her with bitterness in their eyes and their applause was perfunctory and unenthusiastic.

The families of Marvel and Glimmer glared at her venomously, but she felt only pity and guilt for their losses, and so she didn’t return their animosity.

She didn’t sleep that night either, and when they finally returned to the Capitol at dawn the next day, she fell into her bed, exhausted, and slept until Gianni woke her late in the afternoon to get her ready for her closing celebration at the presidential mansion.

xxxxxxxxxx

It felt like an exact replica of the party that had taken place the night of her post-games interview. The same obscenely opulent location, the same boring guests, the same inane chatter, the same sickeningly rich foods.

Only Hera was different. This time, Gianni had had weeks to prepare her gown and so she wore an intricately beaded silver sheath that shimmered and sparkled and hugged every curve. And this time, instead of gliding through the evening as if completely unaware of her gown and how it skimmed over her body, she seemed incredibly uncomfortable. She squirmed and fidgeted and tugged and Gianni slapped at her hands. “Stop fussing,” he told her. “It’s unattractive.”

“I can’t help it,” she said sullenly. “This dress is too tight. And I feel so exposed.” She glanced over her shoulder at her back, which the stylist had left on display again.

“It is _not_ too tight,” Gianni said. “It is _fitted_ and you look amazing in it.”

Cato caught her eye and tried to look sympathetic, although it wasn’t something he’d had much practice at. He didn’t think he’d done a very good job, because she scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest.

But she forgot all about her gown when the fireworks began. This time she was mesmerized by them, and she gazed up at the sky with her mouth open and her eyes shining in wonder, and her face lit up like a little girl’s.

Cato missed the fireworks completely, because he never once lifted his eyes from her face to the sky.

xxxxxxxxxx

They were expected to dance together again.

She was shy this time, more aware of the places where their bodies touched. He could sense it, and so he kept his pressure on her featherlight, resting only the pads of his fingers on her back, holding her hand loosely in his.

“I’m so glad this is over,” she said.

“Me too.”

“When do you go back to 2?”

“I’m not going back.”

“Why not?”

“My mom. And I need a break. From training and mentoring and everything. These last games were awful.”

She shifted her eyes to gaze into the distance over his shoulder. “I know you didn’t want to mentor me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” _Ask me what I meant. Ask me what I meant. Ask me what I meant._

 

But she didn’t ask him what he meant. “I’m gonna have to do that soon,” she said sadly instead. “Mentor someone.”

“I’ll help you.” He said it on impulse, without stopping to think, but he meant it, and he didn’t regret it once the words were out of his mouth.

She peered up at him in confusion. “You just said you needed a break.”

He shrugged. “I’ll still help you.”

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“Maybe not officially. But they can’t stop us from talking to each other.”

“I don’t understand why you--” she started to say, but she stopped herself, and he didn’t elaborate. Because he knew. She wasn’t ready to hear it yet. Any of it. Why he would want to help her mentor. Why the games had been awful for him this year. Why he had assaulted her father in 7. Why he had chosen her life over Clay’s. And he was ok with that. He had all the time in the world. He was prepared to wait for her.

He felt her back tense beneath his hand as she pulled her shoulder blades in towards each other.

“Do they weird you out?”

He looked down at her questioningly.

“My scars.”

“No. What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t care about everyone seeing them the last time because I didn’t really care about anything, but now I....” She trailed off and lowered her chin.

He wondered if it was because of how lightly he was touching her back. Maybe she thought he was repulsed. He looked down at the top of her head, and he weighed his options. He could give in to the desire to study the texture of her scars beneath his fingers, an act so intimate that it could cause her to shy away and reject him completely, even as it eased her anxiety about her appearance. Or he could remain as he was and allow her self-consciousness to fester.

The potential negative consequences of the first option would hurt only him. Those of the second would hurt her.

And so the choice was obvious.

“I have scars too,” he whispered and he flattened his palm onto the small of her back, his hand spanning almost the entire width of it. And then he traced the length of one of the fine, narrow ridges from top to bottom with his index finger. Slowly. Almost sensually.

He heard her breath catch softly in her throat, and felt her shiver. He wasn’t sure if she gravitated closer to him or he to her or both of them to each other, but all of a sudden there were only centimeters between them and he could feel the baby-fine wisps of her hair against his jaw. They were careful to keep their bodies from touching anywhere other than their three original points of contact, but the now-negligible space between was thick with tension. Cato felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had been inside countless women, but he had never felt this intimate with anyone.

He closed his eyes and he lifted his finger and he traced the same scar a second time. She shivered a second time.

So he traced it again. She shivered again.

He fought the urge to draw her all the way into his arms and kiss her on the mouth, but he was beginning to think he was going to lose that battle, right here, right now, in front of everyone. And he didn’t care. He turned his head with every intention of putting his lips to her hair and he began to slide his hand to encircle her waist so he could pin her body to his.

And then the song faded out and a new one began, and one of her sponsors was pulling at her arm and insisting that he have the honor of the next dance. Cato watched her as she turned away, but he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t meet his eye. He hadn’t expected her to.

xxxxxxxxxx

She couldn’t sleep that night. She had to be remembering it wrong. There was no way he had touched her that gently, no way he had caressed one of her scars as though it were something to be cherished. Caressed _her_ as though _she_ were something to be cherished.

Maybe he had been mocking her.

But she hadn’t felt mocked. She’d felt warm and safe. And, well, cherished.

It was terrifying.


	14. Watching Paint Dry

They didn’t see each other again for a couple of weeks. There was no reason for them to. There were no more interviews or cocktail parties. There were no more games to train for. He was no longer her mentor; she was no longer his tribute.

Her days were relatively pleasant and relaxed. She spent time with Johanna or Gianni or sometimes even Trini. And she was amazed at how quickly she’d become close with Lila. The two saw each other almost every day, and she had offered to watch Chaz a few evenings a week while Lila and her husband went out on dates, so she got plenty of baby time in.

Her appetite had returned, and she started cooking again, a task she had always enjoyed when she’d worked for Dean.

Rue and Clay continued to visit her as she slept, and she still cried at least once a day, but she saw Dr. Aurelius three times a week, and that helped her deal with the guilt.

So she was as content as any scarred Victor could be.

Sometimes she thought about the day that Cato had taught her to swim. And the time he’d come back drunk to the Training Center. And the dance they had shared at the close of her tour, when his touch on her skin had made her heart feel like it would collapse in on itself.

As soon as she realized that he was on her mind, she would shake her head to clear it and force her brain to focus on something else.

But he’d reappear anytime her hands were busy and her mind idle. As she fluffed her pillows in the morning. As she chopped up vegetables for stew. As she rocked Chaz to sleep.

And then one day he turned up on her doorstep with a gray cat in his arms. He he had found it, he told her, rummaging through a garbage can outside of his house, and it was half starved.

“He looked so cold and hungry, and I don’t know how to take care of him or help him, but then I thought maybe you would know what to do,” he told her.

His hood was pulled up against the brisk November wind and his eyes looked smoky. She thought he was beautiful, and she stepped to the side of the doorway to invite him in.

The cat purred when she took him into her arms and she could feel her face lighting up as she looked at Cato.

He seemed taken aback for just a second, and then he grinned down at her proudly like Reese and Cole used to when they picked wildflowers and brought them to her. She was seized with the sudden urge to reach up and ruffle his hair affectionately. But she didn’t.

“What are you gonna name him?” he asked, and his knuckles brushed against her collarbone as he reached over to scratch the cat behind the ears.

“I don’t know,” she said, suppressing a shiver.

He dropped his hand and studied her. “You doing ok?”

“I’m fine.”

He seemed satisfied “You look good. Like you’re sleeping at night. And eating more.”

“I am.”

They looked at each other for a few more seconds. And then the wind swept across her landing, causing the door to creak on its hinges. Hera shivered. Cato tore his eyes from her face and turned to look over his shoulder at the leaves swirling on the pavement. “I guess I’ll see you around?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Yeah.”

And then he was gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

She was walking back from the grocery store a week or so later, when they came across each other again on the sidewalk.

“How’s the cat?” he asked, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets. God he looked good in that hoodie.

“Remy.”

“What?”

“Remy. That’s his name. And he’s good. He’s looking a lot better.” She hesitated for just a second and then she went for it. “Do you..do you wanna see him?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll come say hi to him. Here,” he took the bag of groceries from her before she could protest.

He laughed when the cat came trotting out to see Hera as soon as they entered her front door. She scooped him up and gave him a kiss and a good scratch under the chin. “I see he’s taken to you,” Cato said.

“And I’ve taken to him,” she said with another emphatic kiss on the top of his head. She put him down and turned to Cato. “How have you been?” she asked.

“Good. You?”

“Good. You still seeing Dr. Aurelius?”

“He says I’m supposed to find a hobby. Other than working out.”

“You come up with anything?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I was out to eat with my mom the other day and I started wondering, like, how does food just appear in front of me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like cooking. I never thought about it before. I just ordered and it came out to the table. And then at the Academy, there’s a cafeteria. So you know, I never really learned how to feed myself at all….And the restaurant, with my mom, it was one of those where you can see the kitchen. And the chefs were like tossing stuff around in the pans and chopping vegetables really fast and I thought maybe it would be cool to learn to do that.”

“You’ve never cooked for yourself?”

“I don’t even know how to boil water.”

“What do you mean you don’t know how to boil water?” she asked in disbelief. “You put water in a pot and you turn the stove on.”

“Yeah but what setting do you put the stove on?”

“Umm, high.”

“Well I didn’t know that. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t judge.”

“This is unacceptable. We’re going to boil a pot of water.”

So they did.

“Ok, so now what do I do with it?” he asked once it was bubbling away violently.

“I don’t know. Hadn’t gotten any farther than that. You can dump some pasta in if you want. Now that you know how to boil water.”

He looked a little forlorn. “I don’t know how long to boil the pasta for. Or what you do with it once it’s done. Will you—“ he stopped himself and closed his mouth abruptly.

Hera studied him. She knew what he’d been about to ask, but she thought maybe he’d stopped himself because he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by imposing on her. Or maybe he was embarrassed. He looked so sheepish. He looked like he felt stupid. He looked like a little boy. _Don’t overthink it Hera. Don’t overthink it. Just do it._

“Want me to teach you how to cook?” He snapped his head up and there was a little bit of hope in his eyes. “I can’t make anything fancy,” she warned. “I’m from 7.”

“I don’t know that I should be starting with fancy.”

“Let’s make some bacon and eggs,”

“I thought you didn’t have bacon in 7.”

“We don’t. But we have it here, and it was about the first thing I did once my tour was over. Teach myself to fry bacon. So I could eat it every day. Gotta get my muffin top back.” She grinned.

“You never had a muffin top,” he scoffed.

“You said I did. When I was eating my sundae.”

His face fell and the look in his eyes was raw and aching. “I was lying,” he said and his voice matched his eyes. “I wasn’t happy. And I couldn’t stand to see anyone else happy. So I shit all over you.”

She felt her heart rate pick up and her face grow warm. She couldn’t meet his gaze anymore so she dropped her eyes to the floor. “I’m so sor—“ he started to say.

“You want some cinnamon toast to go with the bacon?” she cut him off as she turned back toward the counter, trying desperately to change the subject. She could hear the panic in her own voice and her heart had lurched violently in her chest as he’d tried to apologize.

He got the hint. “Sure,” he said, and cleared his throat.

So she taught him how to crack eggs and whisk them up with a splash of milk and scramble them in butter. And how to fry bacon. And how to make cinnamon toast. And they stood at the kitchen counter and ate breakfast for dinner.

Her face didn’t cool and her pulse didn’t slow until long after he’d left.

xxxxxxxxxx

He started to come over almost every night, and she taught him how to roast a chicken and bake potatoes. How to chop onions and make bean soup. How to fry up fish, which confused him--that a girl from 7 knew how to do that--until she explained that they had trout in the rivers and streams up there.

He asked her if she knew how to make anything sweet, so she taught him to make sugar cookies, and scolded him when she realized that most of the dough was going into his mouth rather than the oven. “You’ll get sick,” she said as she slapped his hands away from the bowl.

“But it’s so delicious,” he whined.

She had to agree, although she was beginning to think that the most delicious thing in her kitchen was him.

She had been attracted to him from the day they’d first spoken to one another, but she hadn’t liked him, hadn’t felt safe with him. There had been no affection or tenderness in her admiration of his physical appearance, no warmth in her lust. It had simply been her body’s physiological response to his virility.

Now she wondered what it would feel like to take his face in between her hands and trace her fingers down his jaw. To wrap her hands around his biceps, to run them down his shoulders and his back. To pull his hips in towards hers.

She wondered what it would feel like to be surrounded by him, to be enveloped in his arms while she buried her face in his neck. What it would feel like to kiss him on the mouth.

She wondered if he ever thought about her the way she thought about him.

xxxxxxxxxx

“It’s winter today,” he said as he entered her house one evening in early December. “The air is different.” His voice was quiet, but full of joy. “It’s sharp and clean,” he said. “Metallic. Like a knife blade.”

“You said that you wouldn’t describe it like that.”

“I was lying,” he said, and his eyes were soft, too soft, on her face, so she turned away abruptly.

xxxxxxxxxx

He sat in his kitchen as the mid-morning sun streamed in through the window. He crossed his arms on the edge of the table and rested his forehead on them. He closed his eyes and thought about their time together at the training center. About how long ago it seemed. About how badly he’d treated her and how strange this must feel for her now. How he was acting towards her. Like a child trying to gain the trust of a nervous animal. Crouched down, close but not too close, hand outstretched, voice hushed.

He wondered if she’d ever come close enough to allow him to take her in his arms and his chest ached.

xxxxxxxxxx

“This is like watching paint dry,” Johanna complained to her one day as they ate lunch at a restaurant a few blocks from Victor’s Row.

“What?”

“You two. You and Cato. Please just fuck each other already. We’re getting tired of waiting.”

“Wh— _we?_ ”

“Yeah. Me. Lila. Gianni. Trini. Brutus. Even Cato’s mom. Enough already. Just do it.”

Hera felt her face flame up. “It’s not…it’s not like that. We’re just…”

“Just friends?” Johanna asked with eyebrows raised. “Yeah, ok.”

Hera didn’t know what to say, because the word _friend_ didn’t sound right, didn’t feel right. She didn’t know what name to give to whatever it was that lay between her and Cato.

“Have you not noticed the way he looks at you?”

“Shut up,” Hera growled.

“You know all you have to do is snap your fingers and point at your crotch and he’ll be on his knees with his face between your legs, right?”

“Johanna!” she hissed, glancing around nervously. “People will hear you!”

But the thought of it made something stir deep inside of her.

xxxxxxxxxx

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked her one day as they were cleaning up from dinner.

She thought about it for a bit. “I liked the color of the dress I wore the night before the games.”

“Dark red?”

“Yeah. It was so rich looking. What’s yours?”

“Blue-green,” he said immediately.

“Turquoise?”

“No. Darker.”

“Like the ocean?”

“Like the ocean...and other things.”

She started to ask him what those other things were, but the look on his face set an alarm off in her head. _Warning_ , it said. _Too close. Retreat_.

xxxxxxxxxx

She was teaching him to bake bread, and he liked the smell of the flour and the feel of it in his hands.

But he liked her better. She looked warm and inviting as she kneaded the dough, and he was seized with the sudden urge to come up behind her and slip his arms around her waist. To cover her hands with his. To put his chest to her back, his temple to her jaw, his mouth to her neck. But he didn’t.

Instead, he absentmindedly wiped his hands on his shirt, and hissed through his teeth as he looked down, annoyed at the mess he’d just made of himself.

She turned and giggled when she saw the dusty white handprints on the black cotton. The sound reminded him of champagne bubbles, floating up golden and gone too soon.

So then he was glad he’d made a mess of himself.

xxxxxxxxxx

He was walking past a flower shop on his way back to his house from Dr. Aurelius’s office when a bouquet of peonies in the window caught his eye. They were bunched tightly together and they looked lush and decadent, a deep, rich red, almost black at the jagged edges of their petals. He thought about buying them and bringing them to Hera. He thought about how they would set off her eyes like that dress had. 

But he didn’t go inside the shop. He didn’t buy them and he didn’t bring them to her. Because he knew that if he did her edginess might blossom into panic and cause her to retreat and he couldn’t bear the thought of it.

xxxxxxxxxx

Lila was throwing a soiree at her mansion and Hera was at the bar studying her options and trying to decide what to order when he walked up beside her to get another whiskey.

“What’s it taste like?” she asked him after the bartender had handed him a fresh glass.

“Here.” He held the drink out to her.

As she took it the ice clinked and he smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” She frowned at him, so he explained. “It just reminded me of that time before your games when you told me you liked that sound. I like it too.”

“But you said--”

“I was lying” he interrupted gently.

“Oh.” A wave of shyness washed over her.

He watched her as she took a tentative sip. “It burns,” she said, scrunching up her face.

“As much as cream soda in your nose?” he asked with a grin, and she smiled back at him. “It grows on you after a while.” He gestured to the bartender to bring her a whiskey of her own. “Just try another few sips and if you still hate it I’ll finish it for you.”

“What happened that night? With the cream soda? I mean, obviously you were with Glimmer. But what happened?”

He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Oh now you have to tell me.”

“No, trust me. You don’t wanna know.”

“What’d you do? Did you like call her by the wrong name or something?”

He jerked his head back and blinked in astonishment.

“Oh my god, you did!” she hooted. “Whose?”

He smiled tightly and looked up at the ceiling. “I _really_ don’t think you want to know.”

She smacked his arm, but there was no flirtation in the gesture. “Tell me! Is it someone I know?”

He sighed. “Let’s change the subject.”

“That means it is! Johanna?”

“No.”

“Lila? I know you guys have had sex before.”

“No. I mean we have, but no, that wasn’t it.”

“Clove?” she asked with sympathy.

“No. Look, I’m not gonna tell-“

“Trini?”

“ _What?_ God! _No!_ ”

Hera wracked her brain. What other women did they both know? She couldn’t really think of any. And then it hit her. She inhaled sharply and before she could stop herself she felt her eyes ask the question of his. _Me?_  He smiled sheepishly and his gaze on her face became impossibly tender. “I told you you didn’t want to know.”

She didn’t know what to do or what to say or where to look, but her drink had appeared at her elbow, so she lifted it to her lips and took a couple of swigs.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there killer.” He reached out to take the glass from her shaking hand and set it on the counter. “This shit’s strong. It’s not like champagne.” He was eyeing her sympathetically, as if he understood how nervous his sort-of confession had made her. “You ok?”

“I--” she started to say, but then, to her relief, Trini swept in between them and took her arm.

“There you are, my dear! I simply _must_  introduce you to Rinaldo. He was one of Laila’s biggest sponsors back during the 72nd games, and he’s been _dying_ to meet you.”

But her relief was tinged with disappointment, and when she turned back towards the bar to find that Cato had slipped away, her heart dropped a little in her chest.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Where did you find this little furball again?” Johanna asked her the next day when Remy appeared in the kitchen to beg for some tuna fish.

“Cato brought him to me.”

Johanna narrowed her eyes at Hera. “Did he now?” The corners of her mouth had begun to curl upwards.

“ _What?_ ” Hera asked, turning to her in exasperation. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Johanna shrugged. “Just that he’s obviously in love with you.”

It was too much. This, on top of what had happened between her and Cato the night before. She was beginning to feel like she was drowning. So she fought against it. “You keep saying shit like that, but you weren’t there to see how he treated me during training.”

“And _you_ weren’t there to see him in that mentoring room. Don’t worry, though,” Johanna said pulling out her phone. “I captured it for ya on video.”

“Captured what? Him mentoring me?”

“Yeah. He’s not the only one who can make secret, shady videos.” She handed Hera the phone. “I wasn’t gonna break this out if I didn’t have to, but you two are slow as molasses. It starts right before you found Rue. Just press play.”

Hera eyed her friend suspiciously, but did as she was told.

Cato looked like shit. His hair was sticking up every which way, and he had bags under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His whole body was shaking.

They were all screaming and yelling at the screen. Trini and Gianni and Johanna. But it was Cato who was flipping out the most, ranting and raving like a madman.

“Go back Hera! Go back! No! No! No! Please baby, please turn back around!”

_Baby?_

Hera glanced up at Johanna in astonishment. “That’s the part where we had just seen what had happened to Rue, and you were returning from the stream,” Johanna clarified. “He didn’t want you to find Rue like that. And we could see that Clay was lying in wait for you.”

Hera returned her attention to the phone. “No,” Cato groaned, his head in his hands. “No. I know, baby, I know, but you gotta get up. You gotta get up.” 

_ Baby? _

“That’s the part where--”

“I saw Rue’s body,” Hera breathed.

And then they all erupted into panic, and she knew it must be the part where Clay had reappeared to laugh at her.

“GET UP! GET UP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET UP AND PUT A FUCKING KNIFE IN HIS EYE!” Cato's voice was almost hoarse and he was practically ripping his hair from his scalp.

She couldn’t really understand what came out of anyone’s mouth for another minute or so after that. It sounded like they were all screaming at her to use her knives. She could hear Clay’s voice and laughter in the background, and she recognized it as the part where he had punched her and then challenged her to hit him.

And then their voices, Cato’s louder than the rest, transitioned into tones of frantic encouragement as she began her assault on Clay. “OH SHIT!” he yelled. “Again baby girl, again! Kick him again! Atta girl! Atta _girl_! Yes! Yes! Yeh-heh-hess!” 

_ BABY GIRL?! _

And then Johanna took the phone from her hands and stopped the video. “Right after that we all went speechless and we were like ‘Whaaaat the fuuuuck?’ because that’s when you, you know, lost your marbles. But anyway, at that point his mentoring stats for the quell were pretty good, even if you’d been killed. Cuz you made it to the final four, and the tributes that 1 mentored were already dead. So he didn’t have to care anymore. He could have rooted for Clay. _Should_ have rooted for Clay by all rights. But he didn’t. He chose _you_. The only thing he cared about was you staying alive. And he risked the wrath of his own district when he pulled that stunt to get you sponsors. And he knew it too. Said it right to my face. Said he didn’t give a shit if they disowned him.”

Hera sat there speechless, digesting what she’d just seen and heard.

  
But Johanna just laughed. “Now look me in the eye and tell me he’s not in love with you. _Baby_.”


	15. Take Me to Church

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the ridiculously long run-on sentence. But it just felt right. (You'll understand in a few minutes).
> 
> Also, not sure if I should end the story here or try to keep going. Please comment and let me know. You won't hurt my feelings if you tell me to just stop it right now. I promise.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

She was shaking with nerves when he walked into her kitchen at the usual time that evening, and the first words out of his mouth did nothing to help the situation.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, and she was reminded of the night he came back to the Training Center wasted. “I didn’t mean any of it. Ever. Not any of it.”

“I know,” she said hastily, hoping that would be the end of it.

“No, seriously you have to listen. I have to explain.”

“No. You don’t. I understand.” She was starting to feel panicky.

Cato sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “He said you’d probably react this way.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Aurelius.”

She scowled. “You two _talk_ about me?”

“You know we do. Just like you two talk about me.”

“Well I don’t understand what the hell there is for you to say about me to him,” she huffed, arms crossed over her chest.

She’d meant to stop the conversation in its tracks with that statement, but it gave him the perfect opening.

“There’s lots for me to say. Like that before I met you, I’d really only been around people like me, and I felt guilty around you. I didn’t like seeing someone so pure and warm, so I tried to break you. And that’s why it seemed like I hated you. But underneath all of it I really liked you and then I didn’t just like you, I--” He cut himself off when she took a step backwards with wide eyes. “And I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I tried to make you hate me. But no matter how badly I treated you you were still good to me.”

“No I wasn’t! I cut you! I practically beat your face in!”

“And the day before you went into the arena you made Gianni swear he’d send that letter to my mother. And that’s why she came to me. You did that for someone you thought didn’t give a shit whether or not you died.”

“How do you know about that?” she asked, horrified.

“My mother.”

“She told you about the letter?”

“She showed it to me.”

“She _showed_ it to you?”

“Yes.”

“You _read_ it?”

“Yes.”

“ _All_ of it?”

“All of it. And you sang to me when I had nightmares, too. I figured it out when I heard you sing to Rue.”

She wanted to die from embarrassment. She wanted to crawl into a hole and bury herself alive. She wanted to run away but the idea of fleeing from her own house and leaving him standing there in her kitchen was too ridiculous. So she closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands.

She heard the rustle of his clothing as he took a step toward her, felt goosebumps form on her skin as the warmth of his body radiated onto hers.

“Look at me,” he whispered. But she couldn’t. So she didn’t.

But then his hands were wrapped around her wrists and they were warm and he was tugging gently and he was kissing her forehead, long and soft and sweet.

And so she peeked through her fingers and the way he was looking at her made her feel so vulnerable, too vulnerable, really, and she started to shake and she felt tears run down her cheeks and her throat was closing up and then he was pulling more forcefully and as she inhaled deeply to try to stifle a sob he took her bottom lip between his two and he cried out in what sounded like relief and at the exact same time she did too and her body turned to liquid and he gathered her up into his arms roughly and carried her to the couch and now instead of feeling vulnerable, she found she had never felt so safe or loved or wanted and then his mouth on hers was the only thing that mattered except it wasn’t enough because she needed their bodies to fuse together so she took his hair in her fists and tugged and she pushed herself into him as hard as she could and he was butting his head into her bare shoulder, the socket of one of his eyes molding into the curve of it and she couldn’t stand the way that the fabric of his clothing and hers was getting in the way of more of that delicious naked contact so she tugged and pulled and so did he and then there was nothing but skin on skin and she didn’t stop to think, she just wrapped her legs around his waist and took him inside of her as she took his tongue into her mouth and she cried out in relief again and so did he and she felt a sharp pain between her hips but it was tangled up with something sweet and powerful and full-- _god she’d never realized she could feel so full_\--and she buried her face in his neck and she felt him bury his in hers and she moved against him over and over and over just to make that feeling flare up again and again and again and he was moving against her too and he was holding her so tightly in his arms that she couldn’t breathe and she thought surely she would suffocate but it would be wonderful to die if dying felt like this and then all of the sensations in her body began to recede from her fingers and her toes and the space behind her eyes in little wavelets, and then from her chest and her limbs in medium-sized ones and each time they crested they gathered momentum until all of a sudden they concentrated all of their power into a small, leaden, knot deep inside of her where her body was connected to his, and the knot was getting tighter and tighter and tighter and then just when she felt like she couldn’t take it anymore everything stopped and for a second there was nothing but silence in her brain and black behind her eyes as her body suctioned in on itself and she thought maybe she really had died, but then the knot exploded and sent its glittering shrapnel roiling back out through her like a tidal wave and she felt his whole body tense as the muscles that were sheathing him contracted and released over and over again and she cried out into his mouth and he answered right back in kind and then he collapsed on top of her, trembling and gasping for air.

Her heart was racing and her brain felt fuzzy, as though she’d been knocked out and had just come to.

But eventually her pulse began to slow itself, and her mind stretched out into peaceful bliss.

Her limbs felt shaky but loose and the weight of Cato’s warm body pressing her into the couch left her with a comfortable sinking feeling.

She was warm and wet and sore between her legs, but it felt delicious and she relaxed into it, luxuriated in it.

His cheek was pressed to her chest and his eyes were closed as he lay catching his breath.

“Does it always feel like that?” she whispered to him.

“God no,” he exhaled into her skin. “That was...that was...a fucking religious experience.”

And then all of a sudden he realized the implication of her question and his arms tensed around her and he lifted his head. The look on his face was dead serious.

“Tell me that wasn’t your first time.”

She nodded at him.

“It _was_?!”

She nodded again.

“Oh god,” he breathed and he pushed up off of her and onto his knees. “Oh god. I’m gonna be sick.”

“Why?” she asked, genuinely confused.

“Because I was...I was _not_ gentle. Oh my god, no wonder you were so fucking tight. Ohhhh god. Did I hurt you? Are you sore?”

“A little. But didn’t you know I was a virgin? I mean, who would I have had sex with?”

“I knew there was a good chance you were but I thought maybe, that Dean guy, and then, the way you just...you know...docked yourself right onto me just now...I assumed….Oh god,” he groaned, and covered his face with his hands. “I would have done this so differently if I’d known.”

“But I wouldn’t have done it any differently,” she said, trying to soothe him. He was so distraught that she felt guilty for not telling him ahead of time. “Now please come back. I’m cold.”

He lifted his head from his hands and looked at her mournfully. “Are you ok?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she reassured him. “I’m better than ok. But I’m cold.”

So he pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch and he slung it over the two of them and he wrapped her up in his arms and put his forehead to hers and as his fingers traced the scars on her back, she slipped into unconsciousness.

She woke once briefly to the feeling of cool air hitting her skin and she whimpered in protest as she felt herself being lifted off of the couch and carried up the stairs and then she whimpered again when she felt her body slide between sheets smooth and cold from disuse. But then she was surrounded by something warm and hard, so she sighed contentedly and fell back asleep.

She woke a second time, paralyzed with horror and guilt, a scream caught in the back of her throat. “Shh, shh, shh,” she heard in her ear, and her hair was smoothed off of her forehead, and lips were pressed into her eyelids. 

She woke a third time as he started to toss and turn, and she combed her fingers through his hair and it only took one soft, sleepy verse to calm him.

When she woke again, morning sunlight was streaming onto her face. She was aching between her legs, but her muscles and her bones and the rest of her body had never felt more relaxed.

When she wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen, her nose was hit with the aromas of coffee and bacon and fried potatoes, and she almost laughed to see Cato standing at the stove in nothing but his boxers, cooking away as though he’d been doing it all his life. As though he hadn’t just learned a couple of months ago.

“Good morning,” he said, and he left his place at the stove to give her a long, slow kiss on the mouth and a mug of milky coffee.

“How did you know--”

“That’s how you always drink it.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked after he’d made up a plate for her. He was looking at the spot between her legs with concern.

“I’m fine,” she said between bites. “Just hurts a little.”

“I still wish I would have done it differently.”

“What would you have changed?”

“Um, everything,” he laughed. “I would have gone slower for one thing. And I would have spent more time making sure you were ready.”

“Ready?” She was confused as to what he meant by that.

“Yeah.”

“I was pretty much ready. I don’t see how you could have made me moreso.”

His face took on a devilish look and he proceeded to explain to her, in great detail, exactly how he would have done that.

Hera felt her face turn bright red and her jaw went slack as she dropped her fork into her food. She was starting to throb and the insides of her thighs had grown damp and sticky. “Johanna,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Why are you bringing Johanna into this?” He looked disturbed.

“She said...she said all I’d have to do is...snap my fingers and point at my crotch and...you’d...you’d be on your knees with your face between my legs.”

His eyes lit up greedily, and he licked his lips. “I think you should test out that theory. Find out if she’s right.” He began moving towards her slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. More throbbing. More damp. More sticky.

“When? Now?” she asked nervously, edging away from him.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh I’m hungry alright.”

_Poor choice of words Hera. Poor choice of words._

“But I”m still sore.”

“It won’t hurt. It’s a different spot. And anyway, who says Johanna’s right about her theory?”

 _God the way he was looking at her._ Like she was a bowl of sugar cookie dough. Even more throbbing. Even more damp. Even more sticky.

_Oh my god. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening._

_Don’t overthink it Hera._

_Just do it._

She snapped her fingers and pointed.

He dropped to his knees.

And Johanna, it turned out, was right.


	16. Animals In Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hera may be a crass little thing, but she's got classy taste in lingerie:
> 
> http://www.journelle.com/loungewear/chemises/fleur-of-england-aurora-silk-babydoll/FLE-FT1027.html
> 
> http://www.journelle.com/loungewear/robes/journelle-coco-robe/JOU-626.html
> 
> http://www.journelle.com/bras/underwire-bras/l%26%23039%3Bagent-monica-non-padded-plunge-bra/LAG-L001-11.html
> 
> http://www.journelle.com/bras/wireless-bras/eberjey-india-retro-bralet/EBE-B455R.html
> 
> http://www.journelle.com/loungewear/chemises/journelle-ondine-babydoll/JOU-422-06.html
> 
> http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/product/loungebeauty-intimates-sets/28342715.jsp#/

Cato left Hera's house around mid-afternoon, and returned a few hours later with all of the necessary items to recreate the sundae she'd eaten back at the Training Center before her games. He arranged it all in a big bowl and added a handful of maraschino cherries to the top of it, and then he sat across from her at the table, staring at her mouth as she brought the spoon to her lips.

"D'you wanna share?" she asked.

"No," he said simply.

She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. "Are you just gonna sit there and watch me eat this?"

"Yes."

"Ok…" She looked puzzled.

So he laughed and told her how much it had turned him on when he watched her eat her first sundae at the training center. "That's why I said the awful things I said that night," he told her. "I didn't know how to handle it."

"What else haven't you told me?" She was blushing, but she was smiling too.

"That I used to have to get myself off every morning right before we started training so I wouldn't get hard."

Her eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really. And I loved you in those red heels."

"But you said-"

"In case you haven't figured it out by now I lied about a lot of things," he said, and proceeded to tell her about the first time he'd called another woman by her name.

"You thought about me that early on?!" Hera said in disbelief when he'd finished the story.

"Yeah," he laughed. "Pictured you right there on her kitchen counter. With nothing but those red heels on."

Hera squirmed again in her seat, but this time for a different reason. _Not now Hera_ she told herself. _Store this up for later use_. "God, I just can't wrap my brain around it. You seemed like you hated me so much. When did you fa..." But she trailed off, as she realized he'd never said the words out loud to her; she was simply making an assumption.

But he finished her question for her. "Fall in love with you? Is that what you're asking? When did I fall in love with you?"

"Yeah."

"Not sure exactly. It happened gradually over weeks. I realized it for the first time when I saw the interview with that Dean guy."

She looked confused. "But that night you...you know...about my dad…"

"I know," he said. "It was jealousy and my own shit and not wanting to be in love with you. You know, trying to push you away and convince myself I wasn't. Which didn't work at all. It backfired, actually, because right afterward, I gave up and accepted it as fact. That I loved you and that you were more important to me than anything else in the world. But I think I'd felt that way for a while. Subconsciously I'd already chosen you over Clay. I'd already taken the video and come up with my plan to get you sponsors even though I kept telling myself I wasn't really going to go through with it."

She looked like she felt guilty about something. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." She shook her head. "It's just that I didn't feel that way about you at all. I mean, I could see that something was wrong and that you weren't really who everyone thought you were, or who you thought you were for that matter. And I wanted to help you. But I didn't love you. I didn't even _like_ you."

"Well why would you have? After all the shit I put you through?" He laughed. "I'm amazed you like me now. When _did_ you start to like me?"

"That night on the train in 7. When I came to thank you for dealing with my father. I'm not sure when I started to love you."

"You love me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.

"Yeah...did you think I didn't?"

But she never got an answer from him because he snatched her up into his arms and kissed her so hard it almost hurt, and by the time they remembered the ice cream sundae it had melted into soup.

"That's twice now," she said afterward, her voice teasingly stern. "That you've gotten in the way of me enjoying my ice cream."

He untangled his sweaty limbs from hers and crawled out from under the table to retrieve the bowl. "I'm sorry," he said as he ducked back under. "But the cherries are still good." And he fed them to her, one by one.

xxxxxxxxxx

They spent the entire next week hibernating under the thick down comforter Lila had picked out for Hera right after the games, alternating between sleeping in each other's arms and mating like animals in heat, barely rising from the bed except to feed and bathe each other.

Sometimes they were soft and sweet and gentle, and sometimes they were passionate and breathless, but Cato was never demanding or rough-at first.

Hera, however, could be quite bossy in bed. He didn't mind though. If anything, it turned him on even more. "Yes, ma'am," he'd say when she told him to do something faster or harder or to use his mouth instead of his hands.

Together they learned that if she lay flat on her stomach on the bed and he laid right on top of her, he hit just the right spot at just the right angle and it almost made her sob it felt so good. "Do it again," she'd beg afterward, but he'd roll off of her and throw his arm over his face, complaining that she was wearing him out and that he needed to rest.

"I never in a million years thought this would happen to me," he laughed. "That one woman could sap me dry."

xxxxxxxxxx

One afternoon, they woke from a post-coital nap to someone pounding on the front door, and Hera peeked out her bedroom window to see Johanna on her front landing.

She couldn't find any clothes nearby, because, well, she hadn't really worn any for the past week, so she pattered down the stairs naked, snatched the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped herself up in it before she answered the door.

"Oh, so nice of you to get up off your back for the first time in god knows how many days so you could come let me in. I called you like six times yesterday," Johanna said, brushing past her and into the hallway.

"I haven't spent the entire time on my back," Hera protested as she shut the door with a shiver.

"Oh. Ok. I see. You're one of those who likes to take it from behind. Let me amend that. So nice of you to get up off your hands and knees to come let me in. I came to see if you wanted to go get lunch sometime in the next couple of days," she said, ignoring Hera's death glare.

Hera looked outside at the snow blowing across the sidewalk. "But it's so cold," she whined. "And Cato's so-"

"Well-hung?"

"Well I was gonna say warm, but yes, that too."

"Maybe your vagina could use a break. Just long enough to get lunch tomorrow."

xxxxxxxxxx

They went to a fancy little bistro a couple of blocks away and got a private room so they could talk without anyone hearing them.

Hera marveled at it. "We don't really even have restaurants in 7," she said to Johanna, "let alone ones with private rooms."

Johanna snorted. "For the cost of the food they better have private rooms. They should really give out happy endings too."

"God you're so crass!"

"You little hypocrite. You've spent the past week serving as Cato Hadley's personal whore."

"Actually I would argue it's the other way around," Hera corrected.

"Really?" Johanna leaned across the table conspiratorially. "What's it like? Tell me everything."

Hera giggled. "He likes it when I tell him what to do. He's very good at following directions."

"I would _not_ have pictured that. Is he good with his mouth?"

"Mmmm. Mmmm-hmmm," she sighed, and stared off dreamily at the wall behind Johanna.

"Alright, alright, snap out of it girlie or you'll soak the cushion. God. Cato Hadley, pussy-whipped. I can't believe it."

"He makes breakfast too. Every morning."

"Shut up! No way!"

"Mm-hmm. And he gives foot massages and scalp massages and back massages." She sighed again.

"I wish he had a twin brother."

"Me too. Could you imagine having two of them?"

"Oh my god!" Johanna was actually shocked. "Now who's being crass? And selfish, for that matter."

The waiter appeared with their crab legs and Johanna leaned back in her chair.

Hera scrunched up her nose. "It smells fishy."

"That's because it's seafood genius. And don't knock it til you try it."

The waiter refilled their wine glasses, and when they were left alone again, Johanna showed her how to crack the shell and dip the pieces of meat in melted butter. Hera almost died from the sheer ecstasy of it. "It's so rich!" she exclaimed. "And it's so good with the wine!"

"So which do you like better...crab legs or getting eaten out by Cato?"

Hera thought about it for a few seconds. "Eating crab legs _while_ getting eaten out by Cato."

"Ok, a, that's cheating, and b, you really are crass. Like maybe more crass than me."

"You're the one who asked the question."

xxxxxxxxxx

That evening, Hera and Cato turned on the tv only to discover that it had gotten out that the two of them were a thing and now all of Panem was obsessed with them.

The commentators played all of the footage they could find of the two of them together, analyzing every little detail, every look, every word they spoke to one another.

"Oh no!" Hera groaned.

But Cato just laughed. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"I guess," Hera sighed. "What do we do about it?"

"What do you mean what do we do about it? There's nothing _to_ do."

"Don't you think they'll be mad at you in 2?"

"I thought we'd already established that I don't give a rat's ass what they think," he snapped. "It's _my_ fucking life. Not theirs."

"Cato.." Hera said mournfully. She hadn't seen this side of him since...she couldn't remember when. It had been weeks, maybe even months.

He turned to look at her and his face softened. He brought his hand to her face and stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. "Listen, baby," he said, his voice gentle. "You let me worry about that, ok? Besides aren't you worried they'll be mad at you in 7?"

"No. They're grateful to you. You saved my life."

"You saved your own life."

"We _both_ saved my life," she compromised. "But now I'm curious, who do you think would have won if we'd been pitted against each other?"

"I meant what I said during your post-games interview. I'd have been fucked if you had a knife."

"But if I didn't? Then you think you would have won?" she challenged.

"Come on, Her. I could snap your neck with one hand."

"Is that a fact?" She rose from the couch and made her way to the center of the room. "You may be ten times stronger than me, but it won't do any good if you can't catch me, and I'm _very_ slippery," she drawled.

He rose slowly. "You sure you wanna do this?"

"Oh I'm sure."

The second the words were out of her mouth, he pounced and she found herself flat on her back as he pinned her to the ground. He laughed like a little kid and sat back on his heels, raising his arms triumphantly into the air. He was actually gloating, and she marveled at just how dense he could be sometimes.

Clearly she needed to be a bit more obvious. She started to stand up slowly, pretending to be miffed, but as he crouched there, still laughing like an idiot, she lunged at him, pressing on his shoulders and taking advantage of his precarious position. He fell onto his back and she straddled his torso, reaching down to inch his t shirt up just enough so she could grind herself on the bare skin of his abdomen.

His eyes went wide as he felt how wet she was through the thin fabric of her shorts. She leaned down over his body, scootching her bottom back into his quickly-growing erection and pressing her chest to his. "I warned you I was slippery," she whispered into his ear.

She immediately found herself on her back again. "Shorts. Off. Now." he said through clenched teeth.

"Mmm yes, sir," she purred, and showed him, to his delight, that she too could be very good at following directions.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Cato left after breakfast to spend the day with his mom. "I'll be back to cook dinner," he said. "Around 6."

"Bring your mom," Hera said. She'd spent a few afternoons with the older woman after her tour, and the two of them had taken a liking to one another almost immediately. But she hadn't seen her for a few weeks, and she missed her.

"Nah, she's got plans with some of her friends already. Want me to invite her for tomorrow though?"

"Sure."

"What are you gonna do all day?" he asked.

"I promised Lila I'd go shopping with her this afternoon. And I'm gonna bake."

"Sugar cookies?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes. Sugar cookies. But first, I'm gonna pour myself another cup of coffee, and then I'm gonna go upstairs and run a nice, hot bath. And then I'll take off all my clothes and sink into the water and think about you while I touch myself."

Cato glared at her. He was already half-hard. "Tease," he said bitterly.

"You could always come up and wash my back real fast before you go. I have a hard time reaching the middle of it, you know."

As he eyed her, Cato seriously considered it. But he knew how it would end-he'd be late for his engagement with the other important woman in his life, and he didn't want to neglect her. Plus, the mischievous look in Hera's eye told him he'd probably come away from the ordeal with wet clothing.

"I can't," he groaned. "But next time. Next time you take a bath I'm gonna come watch while you touch yourself."

xxxxxxxxxx

Hera felt a little guilty. She'd basically neglected everyone else in her life for the past week.

But Lila was ecstatic. "We _have_ to go lingerie shopping!" her friend exclaimed. "So you can be properly attired for your new...hobby."

"No!" Hera was horrified. "They'll put it on the news!"

Lila shook her head. "We'll go to Luna's. They're known for their discretion. All of the important Capitol women shop there. Besides, Cato will _love_ it."

"Ok," Hera relented.

So they spent the afternoon drinking champagne and picking out lingerie. Hera discovered that she was drawn to delicate pieces, rather than bold, vampy ones. She liked fine, sheer lace and everything she chose was either black or blush-colored, with the exception of a short, cream-colored silk robe and a dark red chemise.

The grandmotherly saleswoman who had helped her smiled knowingly as she wrapped everything up in tissue paper. "We'll have one of our girls drop these off at your house, dear. That way you won't have to walk around with them for the rest of the day."

"Thank you," Hera said with relief. "Five o'clock would be perfect."

They went for lattes afterward and then they browsed through a few more boutiques, but Hera wasn't really interested in buying anything else, so she spent the rest of the time trailing behind Lila and offering her opinion when her friend asked for it.

"So...what you bought today….which one are you gonna wear tonight?" Lila asked as the salesman boxed up a pair of stilettos she'd just picked out.

"I'm not sure," Hera said. But then her eyes fell on a pair of dark red heels and she laughed. "Actually, I think I'll go with something he's already seen."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm so happy for you two!" Cato's mother said over lunch. "I was beginning to worry it was _never_ gonna happen."

"I didn't wanna rush her," Cato said. "You know, come on too strong and scare her off."

"Are you taking good care of her?"

"Yes."

"Good. And are you two being careful?"

"Mo-om," he grumbled as his face turned beet red. "This isn't exactly the kind of thing I wanna talk about with you."

"Ok, ok. I'm just saying. I want grandbabies someday, but I'm certainly not in any rush for them, and I don't want you two to get pregnant before you're ready." There was a sad look in her eyes.

Cato reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. "I'm not him," he reassured her. "I won't ever abandon her like he did you."

"I know," she said softly, and reached up to ruffle his hair. "I don't doubt you. But it's good to hear you say it anyway."

"Good. So no more lectures?"

"First of all, I didn't lecture you. I simply asked you if you were being careful. And second, no. I have one more. We need to talk about why you aren't wearing a coat. It's February. You'll catch your death of cold."

"Mo-om!"

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato had forgotten all about Hera and her bath.

The wind picked up and it started to snow again late that afternoon, and his teeth chattered as he made his way back from the grocery store at dusk with a paper bag full of food and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, rolling his eyes as he admitted to himself that his mother had been right about the coat.

"Hey little buddy," he said when Remy greeted him at the door, and he reached down to scratch the cat behind his ears. "Hera?" he called as he kicked off his boots and pulled his hood down.

"In the kitchen!" she called back.

He shuffled across the wooden floor in his socks and into the kitchen.

"I got stuff to make macaroni and ch-" he cut himself off when he saw her, and he almost lost his hold on the bag.

"Oh-ho, don't drop the wine, whatever you do," she said, her voice low and teasing.

"Oh. my. _god_." She sat on the marble countertop, her hair in a messy topknot, her feet clad in the heels he loved so much. She wore nothing else, and she was leaning back on her hands. Her thighs were spread, leaving her completely bare and on display.

"Well, are you just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open or are you gonna put that down and come over here?"

She didn't have to ask twice. He deposited the groceries on the table and practically sprinted over to her.

She grabbed his belt with both hands as he approached and tugged him between her legs, and then she parted his lips with hers and gave his bottom one a firm nip as she undid his belt and zipper.

He moaned into her mouth and she shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free his erection from its confines.

His hands went to her thighs as she swept her tongue across his, and he ran them appreciatively down her legs, caressing the delicate skin behind her knees and the silk of her calves before wrapping his fingers around each ankle and sliding her closer to the edge of the counter.

She wrapped her legs around him, but stilled his hands as he went to remove his shirt. "Leave it on," she whispered, and something about the idea of her sitting there completely bare to him, apart from the shoes, while he fucked her senseless on that counter with all of his clothes on turned him on even more.

He rested one of his hands on top of her thigh and slid the fingers of the other into the silky hair on the crown of her head and he kissed her passionately.

When he pulled back, she looked up at him through half-closed lids, the color of her eyes especially deep and rich. "Fuck me," she begged. "Please Cato. Please fuck me."

So he let go of her hair and he cupped her ass, a cheek in each hand, and with a firm squeeze and one good thrust, he buried himself inside of her and went to town.


End file.
